We smell like camping. Everywhere we sit
Is smoky. Something's burning somewhere. Back
In May, a pre-historic current lit
Us up, and now a thousand men can't crack
The code: abandoned dwellings waiting for
Monsoons while ancient pueblos whisper, "Strike,
Just strike; our walls aren't breathing anymore."
The ash is here to stay. It's hanging like
Cumulonimbus cancer, chafing weeks
Beyond a diagnosis. Armageddon
Is leftovers; the common taste bespeaks
A reckoning, old judgment, while we deaden
Our senses 'til the rainy season lends
Us cash for drive-thru, and the charring ends.
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