Look over your shoulder for the hustle of words.

Monday, June 18, 2007

Cave Hunter

There are folds that fit us without trying;
earth, cliff, eiderdown.
We must remember every one.

Tongues of easy sediment rolled down
from under clumsy mammals, pawing at
the mountain face for shelter.
What benign darkness of the womb was lost
was found again in the weeping forests
of the mountain's curved abdomen.
Women teetered in that abstruse swart
of hollow calling and quickening dreams
with babes in the crooks of their arms,
their bare breasts alight with splendour
and springing blackly on the walls.
Bold bison gods dripped richly from their
fingers and their tongues
and all the brilliance of oblivion
flowed like slow slurry
in each proud coupling.
Our flesh is stone, our hair is lichen;
our sex is a cool cave pond.

Yes! Remember it like an unguent
and transform.
Your bed – the cavern floor
you have carried here from birth.


Climb upon the hill and open your empty eye.
There is nothing there to fall on, there is nothing there
that can stand your impact; that can stand to be a net.

The landscape is all sweat and dirt and animals with
mouths to rip your limbs free, if pressed close.
Hear, hear the whisper of their child voices.

You don't regard them soon enough, the crush
cups you forward, moves your legs, flies you over and then
you see: porcelain visages, blood behind the masks.

See? You thought too late. So we begin again. I wipe your hair
clean of gore and you, you roll up the hill once more.
The lemon sun burns on your neck. Cycle, cycle through this.

You behind your heavy stone, clambering up the hill:
how many times must we do this?