Into the Valley

Bit of basalt in one hand,
Other fist, chunk of ochre.
Who else is in the shelter
But the artist concluding
Something never seen before,
The first image of this god,
This therianthrope, this breach

Of what nature can manage?
You don’t know what’s going on,
But you’re creating the past
That can only keep growing.
The birth is of division
Between representation
And transubstantiation.

Outside the mouth of the cave,
On a chilly, wet fall day,
One lean, limber child in furs
Looks down into the valley
Alert for any danger.
In all probability, this child
Loves to hear and tell stories.

In the stories, this dream shape
Made from ochre and torchlight
Comes to terrifying life
To inhabit the valley,
So that the past can begin
To be the past of worship,
The growing monster

Asserting, in the future
This past will be god, and gods
Will inhabit the future
In such a way you can’t win
Against your divided dreams—
In which you can create worlds
That transform lives into words.

Words Already

Which changes more most,
Tunes acting on words,
Words acting on tunes?

A couple of senior
Couples carry on
About the way that

The car you’ve driven
The past fifteen years
Appears with its dents,

And you overhear
And turn up your tunes,
To see what happens—

A candidate says,
No more chattering
About fast-food meats,

And another laughs.
Wait. Those can’t be tunes.
They’re already words.

Cold Wild Honey

The winds in Alice Meynell’s summer,
Brimming with pathetic fallacy
And a kind of ruthless agency,

Pursue their enemies. Be careful,
And don’t get in the way of those winds.
You’re drawn to the notion, admit it,

Of wind on a mission, no empty
Motions. To be such a wind, stalking
The echoes of this narrow canyon,

Mingling raw ruckus with mangled yips
From the coyotes up at the rim.
Oh, you’re not howling for being pushed

Around, chivvied through the artifacts
Of animal worlds hugging the ground.
You are the hunting wind, rough weather,

You hiss as an assassin and snarl
Like a lion pride warning the rest,
To survive has to mean surviving

At a safe enough distance from them
And their blood-foaming muzzles. You’re worse—
Solitary, unassailable,

The lion of dark midday, hunter.
The wind is not, in you, a warning.
Your wind, beyond bare living, savors

Immunity from dying, searches
Out challengers for top predator,
And, finding none, will go on hunting.

Agnosis

He considered the map she
Had carefully folded for
Him, somehow managing to

Place every crease awkwardly.
The wind was picking up. Would
They still have time to get

A shower before it got
Too wild? He lifted his head.
Where had he been all this time?

And what would happen if, now
Without the map, she got lost
While he had it but couldn’t

Read it? This was long ago,
Even in human ages.
The wind picked up. She wasn’t

Here yet, and he had to go.
Already, he was having
To go, why or where, he did

Brief Debriefing

Did you walk on eggshells
During this conversation?

If not, why not? If so, why?
Do you know any format

For such a conversation?
Don’t say the world grows colder.

Say, More things have happened now,
Than had just an hour ago.

More things have happened. Always
More things have jumped on the pile

Of, This is what has happened—
More and more, and more and more.

You stomped hard on all those shells,
As if stomping them to hell.

And Your Realize Your Name Is Heal-All

You lift your head, sunward.
You could do with a name.
There’s a narrative twitch.

The monsters ride the fog
That your mother unleashed.
Wait! One just disappeared!

That’s your finance mountain,
Your estate? One monster
And a small coffee drink?

You need an adventure,
But you’re not quick to die.
So you watch the sunset.

The world’s a golden worry.
One vanishing monster
Named Jim like your monster.

And there goes the ridge glow.
When is the beginning
Of any adventure?

Let’s say when horizons
Begin moving around
As if the sky hemmed them.

The sky hems everyone,
Even the astronauts,
In the end. Adventure

Isn’t miraculous,
Except when the monsters
Turn out all on your side

And something blows to bits
That heals you, makes you rich
With one narrative twitch.