I went to Ouray to read poems at the Opera House while a wildfire raged outside.

Renounce your body. It
is nothing, was nothing.
You are now part of the updraft,
of the sagebrush on the rising air,
one with the horizon
and the vast expanse of West.

This age-old waning of the sun
has come for eons over this same view:

Mountains slowly smaller over millennia,
the sun, by fractions and particles,
smaller too.