Take the detour made for horses, avoiding eccentric stone steps dangerous to hoofs and slim
ankles. This way shadows are deeper, breezes cooler. Thoughts hurry past a concrete cistern,
eyes snapping words, rising into stark sunlight of the trail's main path.

 

Prints etched
in the dust of
reciprocating species,

some very old,
others yet
to be born.


 

 

 

 

 

 

At the mountain's coarse feet, poets are planting gardens, and becoming progressively poor.
It enough to sigh for a hypothetical past, when poets didn't collapse the broad waves of their
dreams into a narrow beam of themselves.

My water bottle croaks like a frog. Barbed wire fence reminds me that the land's been broken
into shards, like bone-dry pots made, "out of / two parts earth / two parts gleaming / hunger,
and four parts fire," hiding their primordial design.