Landscaping
we’d been all the way up Mount Index scrambled across granite blades to that place in a bowl of rock where warm beer transmutes to nectar
tired and naked in a basin of old rainfall pinned flat by serenity able to think only one thought at a time our pulses synchronized with a pulsar in Vega
when the orange ball started to parabola down we took cold chisels from our packs to carve away the civilized scat names and dates and braggarts’ traces
working like engines well into the night lanterns hard and bright as icy calligraphy made a mirror of pond and sky and though tempted we vowed not to try and make sense of the lines
who came down that mountain at night just those done for the day having given all looking to feed their blisters to icicle streams bellies filled with thin air and razor flakes
