Inferno
[Dream: Ash Plumes]
You cut ash plumes out of magazines,
mostly geometric shapes.
Trapezoid plumes, rhombus plumes.
Plumes with the edge of a plane wing still visible.
Geode plumes that keep sparkly secrets.
Eruption column encroaching on the corner of a building.
Water tower enveloped by a dizzying, white, cumulonimbus mass.
You crease the shape, tape the edges.
The paper is real and architectural.
You feel sad because youāve made something beautiful
that is also a shelter to protect you
from you donāt know what.
The Real Thing
Fly to Yellowstone to see for ourselves: cruising altitude, circadian rhythm loss, molecules messed up by time. The historic continuity of Old Faithful calms us. We sleep in electric skies. Dream black and white Ansel Adams photographs. Dream live webcam feeds which automatically refresh every twenty seconds. Once, we stared at a photograph on a museum wall until a docent politely told us to stop. There is an appropriate amount of time to stand in contemplation of art and weād crossed it. Now itās sunrise at the cone geyser and our shutters will not close. Tourist wanders into the shot, disrupting the vista. Adamsā tripod teeters on rock. A photograph surrounded by stanchions begs to be stared at. Itās not what it looks like. Our insides are floodedācontinuous gallons but no waves. For the first time in years, I recall the thing that happened at the Lake Hotel. Long, low formations of limestone and shale. A tripod steadied by two large boulders. Black āWest Thumbā of Yellowstone Lake, Riddle and Delusion in the distance. Empty cup teetering on the seatback tray like a suicidal diver. All this endless repetition and we havenāt changed one bit: You still believe the real thing will be better than pixels. I still hope Mr. Fifteen-C will move his neck pillow without my having to ask.
[Testimony: JFK]
Seeing land near the runway,
we investigate, take action.
The radio tower
a hundred feet below us.
Colour not close enough
to tell.
Head home, passengers.
Congested airspace, so little room
for error in crowded skies.
Souvenirs
Glass Christmas ornament from Mount St. Helens.
Decorative egg from Sakurajima.
Bubble-wrapped Krakatoa coffee mug.
Sixteen-ounce Haleakala beer glass.
āI Love Vesuviusā paperweight.
āI Love Cotopaxiā iPhone case.
Mount Nyiragongo bookmark.
Bar of ash soap from Eyjafjallajƶkull.
Five-hundred-piece puzzle of evening light hitting Chimborazoās north side, two alpacas.
Refrigerator magnet from Montserratās SoufriĆØre Hills.
Hawaii Volcanoes National Park Centennial pin.
Bottled Merapi ash.
Hologram bumper sticker depicting a heart-shaped steam cloud above Bulusan.
V-neck El ChichĆ³n T-shirt.
Mauna Loa āWish you were hereā notecard set with matching envelopes.
Bezymianny 2016 pocket calendar.
Lava-rock pendant necklace on a sterling silver chain from Rainier.
Carved lava rock ashtray from Mount Pavlof.
Huaynaputina bird feeder.
āI Climbed Lassenā green and orange, iron-on fabric patch.
Meet Me in Little Venice
Because your leg is still broken,
we make several unscheduled stops
along the Grand Canal, former site
of nautical spectacles. According
to our brochure, Louis xivās model
ships once looped the liquid runway
where grotesque fish now slurp algae.
You crouch in discomfort, but thereās
no time to linger when each vista
in Franceās premier tourist attraction
spills into the next, a labyrinth
of seamless gardens. I wish we could
skip Little Venice and be fine with it.
Instead, itās the finish line we limp
toward, catching our quadrupled
reflections in gilt-framed mirrors
lining the marathon route. Pedestrian
traffic flows quickly away from us
in search of guided tours, orange juice
kiosks, La Buvette du Dauphin.
Is that what winning looks like?
Sweaty and injured, weāll never achieve
it. Iām prepared to go the distance,
but as the late October sun manufactures
movement on the surface of the Swiss
Ornamental Lake, you stop. Sun your
withered ankle at the waterās edge, Aircast
Walking Boot upright in royal grass.
Home Stretch
for J. B. When ten lanes narrow back to two
somewhere east of the Port Mann
without the slightest tectonic rumble
from the Cascadi...