Early one morning, my father brought me/ to a fault in the earth,/plunging ravine in the park expanse./He felt he could not do otherwise,/he was born in glee,/to the temptation of work in the quarry./ A metal smith took his time/ to fill valleys,he helped him,/ with a blowtorch and lumber,/ tough guy always./They sluiced a white river full of bubbles,/bruised by leavings of acids and propane./We dwell in this place ,where the river,/ more than a gulch, immersed,/ it’s engineered to flow backwards./A ghost town’s sings-song,/ but we can’t hear it./I thank him for the power to understand,/raised on the river that feeds the lake./I consider the river, and the fault line, /I’m sure about how things take place/ with derricks and devices,/and sometimes, when I work with my hands,/ it’s pleases me to know where I am./I’m on a river, famous for flies,/I hand out portions of imagined fame/make love to dying wives./Really, I am famous,/because I’m still alive.

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