red dirt rivals red hot sun in Palo Duro.
Earth paints its own sunsets
on rocky drops, burrowing,
deeper, towards the core.
Texas rejects the sun.
gathers its own heat from dirt
turned to dust that coats my soles
and soul.
this land is a star in itself,
sees no need for that which is not its own.
pride keeps bluebonnets thirsty
keeps the Devils River cracked
keeps Gulf Coasts drowning.
this place
must have discovered
the secret
to the fire girl
in the sky
for it takes
an eternity
to
escape.
colors burn beneath the smoldering kiss
of a sun this undiscovered country allows
to intertwine silver rays with
dried golden hairs on the top
of volcanos
and with trails of liquid fire.
Capulin and his siblings seek warmth
not provided by flat earth policy;
they, their empty-eyed allies,
and soft-petaled plants are the only ones
who have basked in the light
since before clocks.
we are foreigners. allotted a
moment to pause.
given time enough to catch
breath lost on the way up,
snag a few misty beams of sun,
and shed sound in silence before
the kin of the killer of Pompeii
invites us down
to where once again,
we can race through stand-
still time without
setting our lungs aflame.
it knows we know no better.
it ensures we move along our way.
the Rocky Mountains demand
that you cease your demands
of the world. it mutters:
you do not need that much oxygen;
you do not need as much space
as you wish to conquer;
you are not creators;
you are earth-art
and you move as the land commands.
The Valley of the dead and the wicked
ensnares moonshine and churches,
but there is nowhere to flee
save towards the sun.
mountains press tight,
press us towards pale gold
locks, and blonde arm hairs standing
on end.
on end enough to with newfound comfort
twist pinky fingers with the land
and promise to give us light,
life, in exchange for
the grant to settle within
uninhabited hilltops where she may,
after millennia,
witness the something within us
that sparks in our minds the delusion
that we may not need an eternal to
cultivate our souls.
