Room of DustAcrid, the earth falls upon our hands,
it clings to our clothing,
it is silk, and when a hand
traces something in the depths of the floor,
we cannot read it, it is written in the language
which the feet of a drunken man scrawls upon the ground
as he staggers his way home in the morning.
We vanish upon entering this room,
the earth inhales us...we enter the nostrils
of the rain. We go on anyway, we cannot stop.
We know we are walking
into a mouth, the mouth
of that cave where God sits,
a tired vagabond or exhausted tour guide at the entrance,
and waits at the threshold to gently push us in. One by one
we are devoured by beauty. We cannot stop
Issue #11, September, 1999 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.