there is a bridge,
covered with blackberry
and ivy and feet shuffling
along the dusted
fastidiousness of the
halcyon cracks left
from the decay
left over from a time
when the world traveled
slowly and consumed
the portents of a smile
left in the carafe of
everything that cannot be sold,
won’t be sold, and should’t
be
sold.
there is a ridge,
covered with juniper
and clay and hands
scraping at the
crack in the rock
left red by the
millenia of galcial shift
of pushing and molding
and shaping of the lava beds
that slip up from the spine
of the one thing that cannot
be told, won’t be told and
shouldn’t be
told
that direction has
no bearing
on soul.
there is the collision,
forming the gold of the
authentic rope,
that can be held, will be held
and should be held
in our nights recklessly climbing
hand over hand by hand
at every knot jointed
on our way over
the
road.