Blow to the Soul

And if I were to leave this place,
to go down and break,
would the stars fall tomorrow?

He asked
shoes blackened by the moonscape
standing on the concrete weir
a broken bridge leading to nowhere

But the sky was blue
And the two boys played at winning the Alamo

This river turns over
and it curves and bends and breaks my arm
and if I fell into this suck-hole,
who could pull me back up
again?

His eyes blank in wondering
grease, sweaty ash in trails down his brow
he smiled, slight, pretended
his hand stiff as stone

But a dust cloud raced
And the air turned black, they turned, coughing

Below
from beneath the waves, green and blue blending
the trout rose
its mouth slow in opening
tongue licking the surface tastelessly

But the fire had turned the hill to ash
and they sat, watching the river that curved
feeling the wind that burned
asking
How deep?
How high?

Wings

A tender heart is always broken
she said
as I traced the yellow line
climbing the ridge towards the sky that was falling

Below she watched a trail
broken in places
a distinct and foreign cut in the ridge
falling in the gulch and gone

I recalled the lake
as it sat a year before
a long twisted labyrinth of layered rock
each a different age

I stood on the last standing stone
at waters edge
in the mouth of Black Canyon
where the walls are green

But now the road was newly paved
the hills a little
less forgiving

A tender heart
she started again
But I wasn’t listening
the shattered sky
a million faces
each seemed to know

And we stopped on the concrete hill
that sloped steeply toward the murky green
Beside
a swollen swimming hole
Life Guard Off Duty
Swim at your own risk

A group of Crows
each a different age
flailed in the water
their cries shrill and obscene

A young boy stood on the last standing stone
his arms outspread as wings
eyes black, unblinking
stone

And he dove silently to the deep
arms outspread
catching the light
filtering below.

Sandstone Carvings

I could write my name
on this stone
in the blue moonlight
partially rising

The blank space,
the untouched, unyielding surface
sandstone
so rough
and yet
softer than mountains
I think
rising over and over the horizon

Where is this cool breath, this tired shape?
if I am yet alone
the piñon bough forms a shepherd’s crook
and I sit down.

Listless

Past midnight
On a Saturday
And the sunlight on the ceiling overhead

In tired chains
Frail, bony wings
Flying, flying, too late

A book of Rimbaud on the floor
Faced-up, nothing irregular
Only the type is out of print

The light seeps sulking beneath the door
In a narrow slit
It cracks and the darkness must wonder

Long past one
The floor moves, shakes
Unsteady in the silent light, too bright, too ambient

Though the shadows move
Though the wind whistles through lips cracked
Through the window open wide

Long past the creeping reverie
The nightmare at the foot of the bed
The dial counts the hurried time

In one, two, three
In one, two, three
In one, two, three

Stop counting sheep
The flock’s run into the fold
Of the soiled sheets of morning.