On the edge of town, the old coal tipple
crumbles in the flames of goldenrod and sumac.
Even Sunday Creek has a condemned look.
With the innocent faces of simpletons, cows

drink icy, yellow water from sandstone spits
cut a little thinner every year. Rousted by the echo
of gunshots, deer disappear into forests
thick with scrub oaks and stunted pines. What is left

of the town sits like a cinder in a lush valley
that once choked with smoke before the state
reclaimed it. I don’t know anyone here anymore.
Back at the house, I stoke the dying fire,