10: Canyon Deep

Moving voices: sound thrusted,

notes, folded

written in the air,

placed upon the scale,

the native's flute which weightlessly, effortlessly made the canyon,

marries its sound as far as the ordained presides.

         My hand along the walls,

         does the earth feel this wound as I do?

Is this just part of the form?

Our wounds are part of our form.

I complain of the temperature, how warm at the edge,

cold in the trough, where

the earth teaches how to wear a scar;

I am numb