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.

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