Friday, February 26, 2016

Stones

I heard the stones cry out over the horizon.


They wake me.

Keening air runs over half-buried shack; carcass that Nature's jackals picked clean. Gray-blue wind snakes in from outside and tugs the sheet off.


Cold then heat.


Hear the stones again. See a sunset half a world away. Sky's blood-fire cauterizes wound between earth and myself.


I become whole for an instant.


Soul-embers pierce skin and fiber and meat and bone, and then more. Drink in the honey-wine, Gods-blood running from hand outstretched from stone and stream and old millhouse in woods pockmarked with unmelted snow blanketed in Dawn's dying fog. Feels like sword in the gut as it goes down but the pain is ecstasy. Sweat and tears like sun-melted glacier and dirt under fingernails like flecks of gold.


Find myself under the skein, shack-carcass left behind. Fingers of juniper brush the horizon as sun comes up out of the butte and warmth intimates vitality and dog shifts against my head. Not died but something greater.


Born, alive, from dead womb in dead land.


dreaming of the Hebrides on the steppes of the Paiute 



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