WATERMARK

I left my dreams behind
on the sweaty sheets.

Let them evaporate
in the smoky air. Fires

are closing in on us.
This air shuts me out.

Shallow, painful —
the breathing. Ashes

in my mouth. I sat
with my neighbor

on the deck, smoking
cigarettes. She grieves

her friend who died
suddenly, full of cancer

they thought they’d killed
with drugs and radiation.

Sudden, fierce, these
fires. They ignite from

nothing, a spark, a dry
storm. They say, stay

indoors. Don’t breathe
deep. My heart has

hardened. A stone?
A walnut? Perhaps

a pinecone, prickly,
waiting. Is there any

seed left? The Buddha
says, open. Soften.

Breathe.