WEBVTT

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Bone-white moon, mottled
with dark marrow.

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An ancient skull to
startle a winter eye.

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Walking on spines
of desert mountains,

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holding the climber one step
back from flying with hawk

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and vulture, owl and eagle,
who soar on tides of heat,

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over the rims of castle
canyons, and down

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to white bones of
coyote and deer.

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The ribs of dead cactus
that trap a pregnant moon,

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to the closed and huddled, the
dream-brush bodies on a floor

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where sand runs slow.

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All night, the
climber lifts himself

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on the trails of the
body, and tumbles back

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among the trickling
streams, of carbon.

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Slow precision, the echo
chamber cliffs or ghosts

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of stone and wood, gleam
under a lulling moon.

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Sculptured rocks,
inscribed with white veins,

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are poised on the grave of love
where lovers clamber and haloo

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in the echo canyons, calling
out to the long dead, who

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once felt laughing.

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Your hands hold their flesh
and sing their praises,

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before this curtain of night.

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