by E.G. Burrows
On clear days, wisps of steam
drift from one cone to another,
kettles near boil or cooling
on several horizons, but which
after so many centuries will blow?
One did, famously. Who’s next?
When the clouds obscure,
your concerns fall into old patterns
like fear of fog, dogs
howling, chainsaws in the windfall
breaking loose, homing
toward the heart’s heat like missiles.
They’re waiting for you,
the troubled mountains, to turn your back,
to forget what you owe, to let
everything be explained
by shrinks and politicians.
Hey, buster, they’re waiting for you.