TO THE GORGE DWELLERS
With no fire, you offer
nothing. Say,
a body found, fall creek
gorge. Eventual
it is, meaning to happen.
Meaning to say,
Dear fellow ______,
It is with deep
Name—Name—
Name, strung like
hair. Water strands
made old, made
white. Too close
to dark. Second tragedy
fall creek throat.
Repeated repeated loss.
Thirst-in almanac
of the gorges. Litany
of wrists. Look
down at your wrists,
down here where
the thick laps
the lips. Where you
haven’t been taught:
pull yourself out of
the plunge pool
and look for fire, look
for rings shifted
to your thumb and
forefinger. There, like
vapor wrapping you
in strips. In this falling
moment, cities
sink into the depths,
drown. The earth
face carried up and
away in the current of
a whirlwind, where water
and mountains hide
in deep blue. What faces
bring: a reservoir filled,
following the night
when day fell into day,
soon followed by night
into night to night,
thrice with no moon,
thrice with no flame—
kept in the thick thick.