poems by owen lucas

Gunshots pop sparsely from the police
training installment down the valley,
bubblewrap punctuations drifting lazy
through afternoon atmosphere, through
conifers for miles up to our height.

Across the shallow trench green
turns blue with distance to the end
of the state, the skyline a Richter
reading on an ordinary day, bumps
of a far ridge, mild green hills.

On the shale path below the tower
Kathleen seduces a yellow butterfly,
leaning over the fence. She comes
back up the path to see the view
from the drystone wall, drooped tops
of pines, grey stalks of branches,

white clusters of far off towns. She
shrieks at dozy bees feet away,
calmly sits back down and stares
at her pale jumping kneecaps
(ivory against granite and earth),
spots a snakeskin and exclaims.

The tower closed at 5, families
still troupe up the path, only
to stare into the empty office.
No sweat, too hot up top any-
how, you can't enjoy the view.

Better to perch on the crags
around its foot,
kick heels,
take notes.