The water only stopped at dead-end streets,
rivers hidden beside valley slums
like convicts sheltered from the rain.
Traffic ran over the city
like flash-floods in the ocean.
I tried to see my future peeking out
like Cascades behind low-slung clouds.
Instead, I found a path
through pine forests mold-blue lakes
and icicle mountains dripping down
to red arches in Moab’s desert.
All that I made and divested of myself
shared the space of one car
with the hot pants and fur-flurries of cat and dog –
friendship strewn behind
like broken yellow lines leading home.
Summer 2002
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