Because I do not think in words, I am left with mountains,
isolated with the rise of rock claiming
every sentence I want to think, winding like limestone,
breaking only for amphiboles: the caught light
of sun; the false hope.
Where the oceans are susceptible to evaporation,
old dead salts beneath our feet,
rock will erode and still have roots –
the reform to mineral again and again.
Below Lake Huron, there are rocks from the equator now sleeping below snow and ice where the cold is more frequent, dreaming of a fossiled sun,
pulled so far from home,
the slow grind of teeth in softened dismay.
In Utah rock has fallen to arches and curves
the notion of gravity: the passing of time is palpable
bulging just below the skin, blood ready to fall.
I can see it without closing my eyes, the open vista, archaic land deserted
in great chunks, upheaved; fists of abandoned gods clunked to earth,
made insignificant only by the repetition:
dust after brown after clay after grey. There is a sense of death though everything is distant, stone sculpted like grass; these are the rivers gods have cried to.
Here it is easy to believe in reptiles, their carriage
of time is obvious, their bodies pre-historic. They are the kin of rock,
blending each era together, folding time in soft pillows, whorls of dirt
clinging to their bellies like tired myths, reminding us
we are the impermanent ones.
Debris shapes the wind, giving weight to the invisible.
The river silently hauls bouldered land from its place, each current cold
to its roots.
This reluctant love of close quarters, rock and water
tumbling smooth into one another combing their intimate parts
And so the sheeted rocks give in, cradling the old cedar trunks under the tides,
clucking softly through the waves calling to save what has been sleeping for years.
and we, at best, hope to be a layer,
the bone of sediment in some future rock; the hinge
of a fold.