We grew up in a small town
Near the smoke, dirt, and rust
Of the factory across the river,
The mud and coke-filled waters,
The drowned dead Dutch elms
Fallen away from rooted ground,
The century old iron trestle
Fenced off from foolish divers,
Floating carp and suckers,
Still gasping, twitching,
Unable to just drown and die.
A mountain of discarded tires,
Seeping sulfur, so slow-burning
They hissed streams of boiled air.
Such we’ve done everywhere.
Look up. The sky, cloudy or
Cloudless, storm-clouded,
Or spiked with myriad lightning,
Transfigures all into a paradise.
