Etch

He lives

in that fine gap

between the rock and the petroglyph

though as a child he was

not yet ruined by notion.

For the exile stopped knowing it all,

having trudged

through the canyonlands

to see that

descent

is always lost

on triumphalists.

For the exile stopped knowing it all,

having drank

too much red sedimentary water

to see that

the place of

belonging rises

from ancient potsherds that he must let lay forever

while listening to the silent

conversation

between the rock and the petroglyph,

for they are still

sorting out their

gods.

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