Somewhere nearby the fly
is a friendly last voice
of earth where with broken
pieces glinting everywhere and
unbraided fire hair
the literal eye shuts lured
beyond by what cannot
be seen what has not
begun
stretches out what cannot
be imagined
takes shape under my feet
the bloody red sulfuric sweaty birth
of future worlds.
I never wanted to return she says
never wanted to leave the white plume
the stinging rain
but we come back together
from the boiling point of hurricanes we
walk back over burnished glass
Anna Sadhorse from the fire eating sea
and I back past tiny ferns busy in their grottos
digesting the volcano within
thin moist shadows
caught in the upheaval’s crust
It has never been so fine here where the foot
does the thinking finding momentary ground
before the body falls again forward
into unforeseeable circumstance.
Pick any thread from the loom of chaos
she whispers.
The wildest will do. It is our job
making sense of nothing.
asha
Published in Skidrow Penthouse, Spring 2009
