Poem from the Homeland

Rose Bowl, 2006

As she trills
the last note,
there’s smoke.

Each song now
taken literally.

When the fire-
crackers burst,
we leap to our

relief. We clap,
put our fingers

in our teeth. Then
the B-1 Lancer
in the twilight.

Drum-roll of
the turbofans,

their heat.

—from American Fractal