Monday, June 1, 2015

Descending Mt Beaufort in Southwestern Utah: Hurricane

We live submerged at the bottom of air,
Discoverers, every last one of us.
After all, what else is there to do here
And what else was there to do before us?

Before the pioneers or indigenes,
The ground around the hound of Earth twitched hide.
Before dogs, before the claims of innocence
Bounded through, hot blood dripped from rock slides.

It's a hard world that breaks this easily.
The torturer's breeze is ripped, stripped and sere,
From the edges of the black cliffs. Free me
From this need of a desert. Persevere.

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