Tuesday, December 9, 2014

Poets Write of Smoke

Some words mean what they meant
Five thousand years ago,
What they mean, more or less,
In our related world.
There must have been a word
For this phenomenon

Somewhere, maybe near here
Among the creosote,
Transplanted cottonwoods,
Yucca and scorpions,
The cloud shadow that smokes
The cracked white cliffs like glass.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.