We words were dark the way ravens are black:
“A rainbow of black, a chord of black . . .
Sooty, soily, glazed, cindery. . . . dense as
There are meanings and values attached
To the very idea of black.” Well, we were
Words. Some would say we were that very idea,
Every idea. (Others would still privilege our host.)
We hunkered down in those canyon shadows
Just then fording and shaking grey hands
Across the sluggish Virgin who made them.
In a liminal season, neither fall nor winter,
Chill but visually approximating driest summer,
Among the dusty rabbitbrush, creosote, mesquite
And Joshua trees, we sang our song to ourselves,
Almost luminous compared to the thickening
Shadows, compared to the dutiful drapes of night
That trudge around this pebble of a world,
Like a mule around a well, just a little slower,
A little, subtle bit slower every rotation.
We sang. We were not the tune we sang. We
Were only words. It’s too bad you weren’t there,
Are getting to know us just now as you digest this.
Oh, if you’d been there, down by the sandy water,
Down by the ravens’ desert bedrooms, down
By them chortling, us singing, quieting distant
Trucks and other birds, god, what you’d have heard.
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