The Setting

the bedrock is slick
with sweat and tireprints:

the long lines of blue,
the pointed tops of tents,
the fairies floating in the sky,
amber ash billowing
smoky screens of red.

Who is this place?

Thunderstorms pummeled
granulated visions,
wet-dog smelly and dewy,
soaked in heat and alcohol.

The rain was Medusa–
Frozen in shock,
immobile with greedy
appetites for sun.

Why is this place?

Grandparenting along,
the spectacle careened
towards wise-cracks
and fable-esque epitomes.

I chose to date the warmth.
I chose to make love to dust.

This place is the why
and this place is the who.

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