DOUGLAS S. JONES

Three Days After the Storm

Fog floods the showers of Salt Lake City.
Dreams of abalone stream from drains, barnacles
break open, falling again. Feet bleed
from the tumble of suds.

A squirrel plucks the scales of a pine cone.
Your teeth are not a tool.

This is no time to think of potato chips,
but here I am, with the salt-tongue hunger of cattle
and a crunch of teeth—lust
like boots on snow.

The railroad’s secret
spills over Utah.

In a diner, someone is unscrewing the vessels of salt.