Pompeii, Michigan

On sooted sills of other lives
vineyards spill from bottled wine.

Hurled from life to bas relief,
cast in pumice-sculpted sleep,
mountains thrown against the sea
what trembling atoms bequeathed?

What hand of his touched a sky, 
that touched a hand,
that moved your thigh
to lend me life?

Between the church and farm house door,
Michigan roads run red with ore.


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