No help to patch the cracked lip of that smile.
You see only the edges of things caught sideways
in your jelling brainstorm. Even the cracked smile
could not stop the momentum of your wandering.
And if it's not a movement through space,
across silences and around brittle cities,
then it's a journey inside, between and among
words and patterns you know so well.
Upriver, you swing into your own jungle,
thriving on paranoid connections, vines arching tree to tree,
among smells you remember but cannot identify.
Clutch at the jungle; you're the uncommon flower
that bursts open to find truth woven
in fronds to block the tepid rain.
Reach for it, unperplexed, till sun in the steaming ferns
signals a new relief, unquestioning warmth.
Outside your head and the room, trace dust waves
shot from passing wheels across red and gold desert.
Shafts of sun between fall's darkening clouds
heave against shadows: hands of dead tribes
still sifting through dry weeds with hoarse voices
for the oldest bones.