ĿyshѻkΞ

Waiting for what? The land

marked with promontory mass,

bone and scree. We are the ones

staring back at you. No earth, no sea,

but silence. A black canyon of memory, we

rest on accumulation, many layers of listening

unconquered after a long series of what we previously

called accidents. Many kinds of time collide

in accidents- gradually-and-all-at-once accidents

impatient don't-just-stand-there-do-something

accidents, impulsive, against-all-odds

accidents. Growing up accidents

that reap regret, that bleed

like the iron-rich bones

of basalt, that know

what lasts