who ever sees them
in this canopy of night
until one barks out…
tracers, hot light?

oh
this ground
cleared by chemical fire
from orange barrels, then blessed with monsoons,
I, kneeling, feeling, the modern moors’ mush
wet my knees

do you see
what I do? do you hear,
do you fear, slant eyed demons
who can blend into the ground
make not a sound
until…?

it is too late for me
I have seen them, I have
made them black with light
crisscrossed with crimson
too late for me, after all
this fine art I crafted

other pictures I painted
still dripping in my dreams
you can't see them, framed
by my memory, lies
I wanted to believe

forty-five years
to the day after I returned
my grandson, six years ancient
told me what happened to dinosaurs
I didn't see a meteor but I don't tell him
his brown eyes wide with curiosity
when he rubs the scar on my arm

his tender touch takes me back
to the fields where the invisible game
still lay, waiting for me to return
to resurrect them, and me
but I cannot see, what
was never there