portland, oregon: one summer night recalls another

Nothing started or ended that summer of fire
when orange soldiers raged across the West, wraithlike and elusive,
and a dirty haze hung, unresolved,
each question suspended in smoky amber.

And all we could do was rage into the night,
smolder on the dance floor,
sink into the beat --
now drunken dashing! without rapture, without fright,
for no other reason than to feel the bones in your feet
collapsing into the pavement.

The sunsets brought no relief but masked the blazing reality,
like the surface of the swimming pool, glittering like a moonlit Klimt.
It always felt empty beneath, and your squirming body would not fill it,
a girl coming up for air and getting only
a mouthful of ash.


(matt e. took above photo)