Called Trail Head, where the aspens quake
Like poplars did in my spring, by earlier
Rivers, luminescent -- but out of reach.
Here they dot the telephone line I's
And cross the lots T-squared into
Predictable knots, which if configured
Correctly, may absorb the toxicity
Of the Saturday nights here waiting
For wildfires, whipping em up in
The yawning, the tenacity of being stuck
Like a mountain lion in a cage
But it still burns
Down the red hills, defensive forts
Disguised as acid-bearing
Fountain pens tipped
To the slightest inversions of etiquette,
When sovereignty's defined by opportunity
To use levers that don't guide, don't tell you
How, or even if, no break glass in case,
No in case at all, just a burning heart
Trying to scorch all with what it calls truth,
The final defense, from when the chessboard
Was a game, now everyone's forgotten the rules
Except for the ones they invented,
But even these are not well-understood
Only that one must back away.
Look, there's a place I can vanish!
