It’s always the most blue
water that is lacking
bacteria needed for true purity.

I slid down your greenest of hills
with no human civilization for bearings—
all around, all above was cloudless sky.

Your canyon lake was as fantastic as a
child’s crayon drawing—cerulean, imagination, aqua,
just enough truth for lies.

I don’t know if you’ll rupture again—
I could drown
trying to find your core.

But cracked as your foundation may be,
I think you could still hold, die keeping buried
beneath most brilliant of hues,

with parasites, no growth or life,
just tourists dying, trying to touch 
a sight two dimensional—merely vibrant.

I imagine the fire you brew 
wouldn’t abide your greenest hills, 
that all your aqua wouldn’t hold bearing, buried,

that it would fail to pierce through charcoal sky—
all around, all above,
clouded, shrouded in ash.