Cactus Shadow (for Edward Dorn, 1929-1999)

The gun, never fired,
smokeless in its silver plated life,
is under glass,

under the dust, rust and
oxygen
severing the trigger from the firing pins,

 and there’s someone laughing

in the other room, and old man with a broom and a bucket,

Something is just live long enough to rust and fade
and become part of the forgiving earth again—

I wish I were that man on the phone, laughing,
because then, maybe
there’d be something funny enough to laugh about
in this life that is fine as far as it goes but sometimes

sometimes

Just has me staring at another set of things,
 free of human intervention, running down in their assemblages, their soldered being,

All moving parts become stuck , and break off,

Ed Dorn won’t be twirling the gun or turning the phrase anymore from the side of a dirt road, draped in a cactus shadow where La Jolla greets with open palms,
 the sky is closed for repairs,

There are smoke signals from hills where the big houses are , the land stretches forever after the images fall off the edge of the earth, what ever it is we were driving at,

It means that all the love stops when we’re no longer here to arrange the furniture, its no longer about us , but about the room we died in, what ever gets discovered on a desk, a shelf, old cups or rusty guns hanging from nails in the pantry.