Saturday, March 30, 2013

Worm Moon Fragments

A pretty good Friday in Moab,
What with the sun shining on the Jeeps,
And one who is none can find oneself

Wondering how the ordinary
Can emanate from untouchable
Underpinnings, gravitational

Tugs weaving through tragic and magic,
How humans on holiday emerge
From our ritual observances

Of the mysteriously unkind
Acts we have done to one another,
To men we admired as gods, to gods

We admired for what they'd done to us.
A kind of water, blued purple thread,
Rushes on under us as we float,

Drawing sustenance from mysteries,
From every curse and blessing coursing
Downriver from the turn of the moon.

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