In evening the ridges crowd heaven
with splintered dancers,
beautiful neighborhoods bead the slopes,
below them giant buildings
transform razor blades to discs
that rest warmly and heavily in trays,
the living fire escapes
to tattered rooms of shouting and smoke,
downtown the patches cross streets,
straight suits and banded women
who rise clean and calculating
through the suites
with subtle decisions and boredom.
The little parks are fraught with sculpture
to the bitter anxiety of the empty,
glistening Sundays
strict as mined ators
trees die a frame at a time,
but in the laser sparkling
across a domed ceiling
the three dimensional hallucination
of fire and sky and furry hillside
arcs through;
when the tilting dildo flings
specks of light
and translucent skins
of onion, mica,
glinting strands of hair,
all in fresh hemispheres
of a contrived heaven
while the turntable
gears out a fake boogaloo,
I marvel how the Aurora Borealis
climbs to higher, more precarious turf
and bear seem scarce,
the formidable winds
stir huger lichens than men
down the Rockies’ arroyos
to a flat plane high as carrion birds
over a trampled jackrabbit
so the constellations will cease
shifting, leaking maneuvers
to the cautious man.