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
in the dust of
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
shards, like bone-dry pots made, "out of / two parts earth /
two parts gleaming / hunger,
four parts fire," hiding their primordial design.