Held Golden in the End-Stage of Your Days

That’s when it blanketed you

In your sunny room, reading

Fern Hill, of all things—Fern Hill

Among the stone skeletons

Of red-rock Utah desert—

That, as surely as this room

Glowed in the lowering light,

Tens of thousands of people

Who’d come to tour these canyons

Would here, soon—here or somewhere,

But not before long—suffer

Grisly, unexpected deaths.