Enter the Western Slope

When water wears me
down, what shape
will I be? Canyon, spire,
sharp walled butte?
What is loose falls scree
at my feet. Sage grows.
You can’t find firm ground.
Angles are steep.

It seems wrong
what is hardest
stands so long.

I become a landmark,
some kind of sign.

Don’t be fooled.
Impossible toothy leaves
sprout from my fissures.
Roots a fine filigree,
fingers seeking pinholes
I’d rather ignore.

Every blind spot is a war,
a tiny door where I fall out of myself
to let you in, slow and thin,
one grain closer to nothing
but air standing there.

2012