Fog sits on the winter city
Its December fingers
find ways through seams
into warm creases
Of thought
As I leave for the clear light
of the uninhabited
canyon
How much I have forgotten I cannot say
It comes back to me clear again
In a defile steep and broken and clean and frigid
As green boulders part snow runoff
A black silhouette of phainopepla
Watches a translucent moon drop behind a ridge
The dainty print of deer holds water in freshly
washed sand
I hope for
The respect of the sun.
But hear something to which
I am normally deaf
Blood red and hot
A grammar of living surges
A life apart, liquid
The foreign language of the heart
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