ironic wolves in the orchard west,
you can tell where we are by the trees.
I hear them all
and
two rivers east.
walking
with
wild sunflowers,
my feet stink so I throw away my socks,
hoping I will see a deer with them on later antlers.
trucks took us here,
me and a fishing pole and a nasty little notebook.
I read poetry to the prayer mountains
whole while trout fishing
for the first time in this last life.
two rivers converge, stories down,
created by ice age,
I have never been to this square inch
before.
I liked history in middle school,
but I still don't know what that
means: created by.
yet, here I stand
in this square inch of my own history
fishing for wild
just north of imagination,
grey hairs in my mustache,
none on my head, thank Hashem.
with wild sunflowers, early June,
ancient in every way
except me and the otters;
my cellular telephone doesn't work and dies
a thousand and two times,
like me.