the hills’ bald heads
defiled by the saw
burn and peel in the
winter sun
ring of fire volcano peaks
like snowcapped pimples
fester on the earth’s
pockmarked face
thirsty towns mangled
by geography drink
from lakes of the
clouds’ milk
undulating at the end
of the long river’s path lies
the city where my youth
also meandered on
its trajectory through
those years
this highway lined
with all-American graves
feels like a monument
to the fragility of
eras
some times passed
have passed away
while others remain
living
and the bruises
of that desecrated age
of boredom, innocence
and pain are finally
healing