I buy a fire engine just in case
and look for signs of beetle kill
in every tree that I climb
to retreat for a while.

There is something sublime about 
a lone red trash can
filled with flames, steam wafting 
off tailpipes on a cold morning,
the town whiskey spigot clogged
and backing up amber
into the river.

The Sherpas suggest
turning back by now.
The Judas goat bleats me
to continue up the ridge.
If there was a time to use
the pineapple in my pocket,
now is it. I pull the pin. 
I think about fragmentation
that makes us whole again.


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