64. Slim Canyon

canyon rock sweeps 

a mild west curve

by the cottonwood just

drifting toward green with damp

dark against root 

tapping two feet down;

where the two red rocks

lie flatly cupped

by wide bedrock 

and fox cross daily,

under sheltering sandstone’s mass

overhang, stained by drooling rim

and fire 

are stones, dressed and 

stacked and fallen

back to earth again,

lying in weak spring sun 

like exhausted children

left on the beaches of war.

.

Slim found Guadalcanal

in a storm of metal jackets,

a flash-flood of fear

and he walks the canyon 

named for him.

He rustles cottonwood leaves

with fingertips.

He kicks sand

into wind’s posture.

Slim whistles through doors

of shored adobe,

tapping rocks.

His palms are all over the walls.

His feet are all over the sky.

Between ripples

marked by flood is his breath,

there in the troughs.

In the evening he lies quietly

beside the stones,

dressed and stacked and fallen

back to earth again.

.

Each breeze is cold

against ruins whitened by moonlight.

All the pots are broken pots.

All the songs are old 

and specific.

.