What was this coming to, the days of winter rains gouging
A dry landscape, scoring the cottonwood bottoms with brown washAnd black basalt tumbling, etching the cliffs, drawing the canyons
Down? Nothing much, probably. Not even a minor apocalypse,
Minor nonconformity in the layers of the era. The usual, predictable
Variation of this detailed, repetitive landscape, and more of it, that's all.
A season with slightly higher than mean floods, maybe. A prisoner
In the cell of our earth might wonder, given this current
Order was certainly not necessarily the best, was it even likely
The only one? Among the others, if there were others, companions
For this arrangement, comforts, could there be better, any better
As well as worse? In multiple languages, fate or fate's equivalent
Carries a double meaning, meaning both divinely providential
And/or merest happenstance. Fortuna, tyke, luck: one-word
Oxymorons forever opposing themselves: that's the sort of wisdom
Culture cultivates. In a grey hour, when tires spun in mud under hills
Where the wolves of metaphors and numbers mourned in hunger,
Body knew only that everything would come down, destiny,
And no detail of that come-down, chaos, could be promised, ever.
No comments:
Post a Comment