Bomber lake: because it is closest to the crash site.
Johnnys strafing mountain sheep that day took a wrong turn,
missed the sky and surprised the ground.
Then lodgepoles grew straight
as anywhere from the wreckage,
barred the mangled aluminum, mountaincrimes jail,
and previewed post-human 3014!
The lake is miles away.

When I walked the shores I hadn’t sharpened
an eye first for fresh destruction:
all the boulders rubbed out, trees popped open.
But I saw through a woody corridor
shorn in the shape of a door
the new island in Bomber Lake that day.
The nose of a mountain fell in the mud.
Like planes that bounce off clouds,
like our handful of history-molded minds,
a day came that the rock had to exercise
its only right:
the latent violence of elevation.

Best poems describe persons separately.
Of the best lives we may say the same thing.
Then we ask for more.

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