The earth is severely sere here.
The mud has alligatored,
the clay refuses to mix.
October, at the end of Fall,
the ground is cracking open
as if fault lies everywhere,
lies, blaming saints, spirits
and the howling or screaming
of wind through narrow channels
gives way to funneled expression,
dust devils and whistling
which
severs connections
and strains the crust, curling up
at the corners
The baselessness of these terra firma's
now below sea level
seem deprived of all
but the wound salt.
And while we stretch out
in our gravel beds
the ocean spreads
its legs, the rivers open slender arms and
canyons yawn, too tired to carry more
and have already
spent all
the time
in the world.
In need of nutrients and lubricants,
and seconds,
we wait for the weather to change
it's mind and stay the way it was
predicted to be by date.
Terrestrial we talk of air and water
as if we did al-
right
with fire.
We have no choice but to dig our ruts
and pace ourselves
to death.
Painting by Arthur Streeton (1867-1943), date unknown, in [Public domain].
