The highlands wear their hat of grass
Sleeping with their eyelids raised
Like a goddess without her makeup
And a mouth full of splinters from a wooden cup.
Dying in the groin of the valley, master sits
Reciting his echoes over the fire-bruised fields.
Wearing his iron frown, watching
The evening’s heavy ballet.
I stand over him in his tired hole,
My fur smeared with sighing mud,
Dark as a crow’s crumpled wings.
I lick his face—why do we stay here?
In the sky the answer comes.
Clouds scattered like trails of breadcrumbs.
Like sawdust from the wrinkled canyon’s heart
Waiting for the wordless blow.
Colin
