Plank by muddy plank we cover our tracks
this side of the grey river, history 
nods off—slips quietly under the icy flow.
Fire that burns off an oil well 
is the most beautiful fire. 
                                                                                                                                            Fire that burns off an oil well 
                                                                                                                                            is the most beautiful fire. 

It’s a wooden town we built upon this borrowed land: 
smell of new lumber, and fresh paint.
What’s under (that rot) seeps between the planks.
                                                                                                                                           So much to fuel - red velvet – 
                                                                                                                                           white heat of extinction—
                                                                                                                                           You forget the loss

Plank by muddy plank we name what we’ve covered
what it once was: Erielhonian, Senecca, Cornplanter, 
but memory is the stone in the belly that remains
even as the oil wells run dry.