Enter the Western Slope

When water wears me
down, what shape
will I be? Canyon, spire,
sharp walled butte?
What is loose falls scree
at my feet. Sage grows.
You can’t find firm ground.
Angles are steep.

It seems wrong
what is hardest
stands so long.

I become a landmark,
some kind of sign.

Don’t be fooled.
Impossible toothy leaves
sprout from my fissures.
Roots a fine filigree,
fingers seeking pinholes
I’d rather ignore.

Every blind spot is a war,
a tiny door where I fall out of myself
to let you in, slow and thin,
one grain closer to nothing
but air standing there.

2012

One Response to “Enter the Western Slope”

  1. Fey says:

    Ye gods! This is one of your finest! Best bit. One grain closer…

Leave a Reply