Thursday, February 03, 2005

My Maya

The brown, burnt grass
And a dinner for the evening.
She lays on springs
And over a decaying white window.

Under the old shingle pile are snakes
So we stay far away
As the purple hero night sky
Brings us to the shelter tree.

Maya squats her brown butt
Into a hole in the brown earth
And lets a pure human stream begin
Almost pure for drinking.

And she takes my hand
To the kindest tree
With the bending boughs
And water freshets-

Lifting her lips,
Raising my arms.
There are no insects.
There are only drums of magma
Pulsing our world around the sun.

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