Helicopters crawl the canyon air, buzzing far-off as insects.
Bombs go off nightly,

40 miles away at the military testing site
fighter jets move just beyond their own noise.

I feel like I am at the edge of your love
but this is my own head, overworked by dreams.

This is how much of the world is currently on fire:
5.6 million acres of land has burned so far this year.

In Poland, wood ants have survived for years trapped inside
a nuclear weapon bunker, they keep pouring through a hole and starving.
They are swimming through the shells of other ants.

There is no sense of place here because, for a while, there was no place.

The leach-fields brilliant green, the blue light of airplane bathrooms,
blister-skin bark of the balsam fir, the color of horses
and other quadruped animals.

There are not poems because there is nothing left inside of me
or it leaks behind me like an oil drip and I can’t see it because
I keep turning around and around.

We have been darting wild mares with birth control
so all over the prairie—dead baby horses.

All of the homes we create are temporary homes—
it is hard to say now whether it is ash falling or snow.