Stranded as I was
I stayed very still until I was not lost.
And all that seemed vast and unfathomable
became a tapestry of detail that I knew well.
For every middle of nowhere
there is the centre of everything,
when you find that the only foundation you need
are the soles of your own feet.
Now an arc of woodsmoke marks your work.
I watch it rise from where I sit in the afternoon.
You find your peace in what must be endured
and your skin is a time work proverb.
Somewhere between sleep and it's other
a gentle shift occurs.
And the songs that I knew as a stranger
are lost in the hum of the underworld.
Your say since you stopped looking
to the sky for answers
and conversing with tireless ghosts
there are so many little things that you have learned.
And oh, Molina, your iron age beasts
still patrol this grid
sewn with mutant seed.
They're still rattling those chains,
the soil still soaked in the oil they bleed.
Still heaving their mineral cargo around
and taking their orders from self-appointed kings.
Who assure us that their Gods
are fierce and unforgiving,
they conjure soap-flake blizzards
and hold forked lightning between their teeth.
Concerned only for
the apparatus of their greed.
And though I may be Godless,
I am in love with little things.
And I see nothing here worth punishing.
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