25. Fermentation
Arrow weeds hide
the river beyond
and a further hiding too.
Brush ruffle
of stems and crushed gravel,
insect crevices
issue from branches like
speech
from a bird
when the clouds are still
and so too is every blue wasp hovering
over the salt.
The smell of rain
alights, colors
the shine.
The wasteland was polished,
a scrubbed
likeness: scripts.
In the sun, mountain
teeth
rise from the heat and reflections.
The washes flex their
muscles
and datura open their
mouths
to swallow sound and image,
to sap the
wit
that scans the dust
and finds more colored dust beneath,
more degrees of loss
to less than
sand and dirt.
Subconscious. In the hard
ribs
of the canyon,
shaded pumps feed
glowing husks of crippled cactus
arms
and enumerate the scorched grains of
sliding dunes.
Winds possess the playa and
blow air through the valley
lungs,
bellowing host
of lights
and fires
folding the emptiness into
vociferous sunrises,
a babbling outside —
hoped for,
feared, ignored
beneath a sign that reads
“sea level.”
I am publishing my book of poetry, Place Like Home (or), one post a time. This is poem #25. You can find more here at The Junction and on my Medium page. Thank you for reading.
