Arts + Scene » Poetry

concerning the rights of mother earth



it's not the comforting heat
of the hot sheet metal
of the car door
under an arm propped
out the open window —
the panamints on the right —
speeding toward
stovepipe wells.

— a self-shattering dream. you
know what i mean.

the unease is palpable in the
weight we all carry.

our collective breath: where does it lead?

yellow eyes —
tongue lolling,
as they say —

a fish in the sea
pursued for his life
by a bird who will
fly beneath waves.

these naked clouds that cover the

now is a good time to love
bare rock — the skeleton.

the feather pressed in amber
we are real.

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