Wind blows grain across the ground,
the hills make the sun a legend, kingdoms are seen
falling from up there, some kingdoms rose,
the sun's glare took them into the land...
Bitter grain, brewed to distraction, snake coiled
in the shaman's leaf, the sun drew evening into
it self and made part of the land.
only the mother could raise her hand to it all
and proclaim a course running apart from light.
We walked this far in silence, We felt her eyes
glaring behind mashes of leaf, her breasts
offered, hair woven out of flax. Nine spawns
clawed from the caves of this region, hundreds
more build on fields that absorbed their work,
our harvest slices to desbris the sun chose not
to cancel, all discarded, no longer part of its
region: a crude child's rattle, a stone-made,
screw-top jar.
