There Is No Scotch Jungle

Anywhere north of Rum Jungle, Oz.
That was so long ago, one life gone,
Ongoing epilogue just started.

Now we widen our thighs and our eyes
Under the dusty cliffs of Zion,
Young life up started in the shadows.

One would love to make more sense than one
Seems capable of confessing. Clouds
Taunt the lives below the skies above.

There was a story, upon a time
That for once unfolded without
Reference to any origin.

We are not a one anymore.
We are a reconsideration
Of ones happening, one at a time.

"There is no Scotch Jungle," Sarah
Laughs, explaining rum's happier
Madness while I scour the Hebrides.

Sequoia was not a thought of ours
In jungles after the final ends
Of what I was before I was us.

But she sings to herself just the same,
Contemplating her latest face make-up,
Butterfly jungle eyes in Zion.

Have we done enough to merit what
We can't possibly earn on our own?
Our lives are the hybrids of our minds

And the lives of the ghosts of cultures
Begun before we were these jungles.
My mind is an eagle in Scotland.