for Amos

The sky has a nervous stomach.
This spring of shattered estates
and salad bowls tossed on hillsides
where mercy chefs bring porkish
mac and cheese and new friends
with chainsaws rid the pool
of sweet gum branches. The wreckage
of joists and complaint of wires, poles
all frowsy and dinged. Give me
your hand in these hot smudge days
and let’s whisper the best
available myth of ourselves 
to the ringing grind of bulldozers
who herald the coming currents,
the barren calm of our old earth.