Chaco Canyon

She built rooms
hundreds of rooms
without windows
or wind.  dark.
but she traced the sun
with exquisite lines.

lines of revelation
on the shortest day
in december.  and
since lines always
point to something

morning comes.

I found myself
beaten down from years
of erosion.  no longer
concerned with
presentation.  bare
white skin is  
solitary shelter.

what use is armor?
why the bluster?
because
bones are all
we leave.

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Harbor, Shoreless

He is quiet, his way
barely exceeds sustenance.  The chapel
on Tuesday morning where no one prays
receives his mind from across town,
sunlight streams in through depictions,
coloring the room.  Empty.  Walled-off
from several billion voices, a small
compartment.
The reach of thought is limitless,
instantaneous.  He thinks about this place.
He is there.