From inside the secondhand store I admire
twenty amber ashtrays in the window
lacquer slathered on wooden lamps
all hanging-on to sun made ashtray-amber
by forest-fire smoke that has not cleared
the diminished sun replicated

on a thousand glosses glasses thimbles finishes
over the weekend a local man dies
traversing the window of a house he's trying to rob

on Mars the device continues to crawl
ash is falling from distant fires
north of town a man dressed as

Bigfoot is struck and killed

he's doing it for us
those who want to stay a little bit asleep
lean against pine until hillside forget
the airport's new luggage carousel

goes round like the rapids the city put
beneath the bridge to stimulate kayaking
and give mountain trolls

a riffle to wash their knuckles in
I am only dressed as a troll
although I don't remember

putting the heavy costume on
and can't find the zipper to take it off
not even the pimpled nose
or the one big tooth like the pawn ticket

a stranger gave me at the bus station
and I will someday get around to exchanging

when I have taken care of everything else
every other matter