Signs for the leap of a river or the skirt of a hill Spoor of an animal gilding a lightning trail The hour of night when an old moon shakes her abundance of silver The way grasses weave loomed garments through the valley We could go back to the old names that were not names according to those who called us other names They hid us from us our gods and ancestors Our dead never leave the soft caves of their burial but know how to plant quartz seeds and patiently tap the soot-laden thorn that ripples our skin So are we marked as we go armed with brass bells Not orphaned Only set adrift in a bounded world
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
