Flowers Once Grew Here, You Know

Gunsmoke sneaks up the broken valley

in twisted trails of gray that form a veil

covering a mountain's tear-streaked face

pock-marked with bullets

stained with blood

and houseboat dreams she keeps

between crag and green

of drinking all the poison from Dal lake

leaving an underbelly exposed

softer than the cashmere sweater

to which it has lent its name

salvaging the wool

we once called home


flowers once grew here, you know.