Out this window, angles of light
and miles of chain link, blue sky
bearing down on it all—heavy
with high desert snow. It fades
quickly in the morning mist, and
there is little the muse can do.
Still, there’s a grip of ideas
beyond everything. And amber lights
like saucers circle the land,
as I am reminded of fiction
from another day, a dark age
before the penitent could sing
dirges of regret. This life,
the walls say, is far too gray.
—from Rattle #38, Winter 2012