Crackling clouds interrupt the drive Of a man bent on distance and need To talk God out of sanctimonious Moan-ings of celebrity and thunder. The beach is not right The desert has gone vague Mountains, now small Distance themselves well From land-slide and flash-flood. A packing house packs Guts of shredded domestication For housewives on cell-phones Landroving themselves into Another year of plastic and Urgent mouth-fucking. Were I the rain? I'd wash them all away With a wipe of wet hand And a million slapped pounds Of rock, mud, and death. But I am a poet So today, in this storm I will instead; dream the impossible And teach my son To light a fire.