The sunset poem
rode across the high desert
to the volcano stump.
The guy on the radio – the likable one,
the best of my generation, the idealist,
playing the world beat, and rock & roll –
he died last week.
whatever his age.
Echoing in my head.
The poem erupted.
You can climb the volcano stump –
a million years of erosion.
Just before the top, a small cave –
you can feel and smell moist air
from the middle of the earth.