There is a quality to desolation
that I have never seen.

I have been in a desert, touched
the aridity of it’s soil, and its
air like hot feathers
on my breath;
I have seen the sea far out
with only a blue smudge on
the horizon
to mark our return.
But I have never felt that terror,
that awe and loneliness
that has been spoken of,
and said by the poets
and deliverers,
to bring ones face
to God.

Do not misunderstand me.
I have felt these things;
at the end of a trail
leading nowhere,
on a *****
with loose stones
for footholds.
I have been in places of terror
and beauty,
and been overthrown.
But not wholly.

Perhaps
I have not been still
enough, have not lingered
in those part-wild places
that have seen the summit
of my fear, my longing.
Perhaps even they, even
they, have what I seek.

Perhaps
I have not been still
enough.

If I should want

let it not exceed

the number of fingers

on my one hand

fungal bloom
hidden beneath is
its source

Clouds streak the
setting sun’s radiance,
like waves, like feathers
bowing leftward. A soft
rain falls, a breeze blows
gently from the west.
And from me the sound
of pipes, of words and
exultation, lamentation.
It is in me that the sunset
is exulted. It is in me that
the border of the blue and
purple is seen, the amber
of the center. Around me
the gloaming is falling.
I see, and am whole. I live,
and am not fractured.
This is evening.
This is evening.

vanishing tail
after three the rock
goes with it