Landslide

We spent the whole morning in here climbing up roots
and pulling breath out, one card trick to another and laying down stone
as we sidestepped stone; here, it is easier to step without thinking without
trying to understand how one rock compares to another
how one step might leave you hanging, holding nothing but uprooted
air in your hands. It’s easier not to think.

Geology never thinks. Geology leaves rocks scattered and then comes back
to take more, to lay down a heavy, tired heat and to turn water
from stone, geology is a language of its own. It can hardly weep
and yet, look at the river go.  How the river turns and looks upon itself,
always moving forward but curving back in final thought, the last twist
of trying to say something other than good bye

If these rocks could speak, the dirt would fall loose the way teeth do in dreams
little white pebbles filling a great black cave the language of geology
dark in the mouth, leaving  just enough space for air to oxidize and yet
not enough space to breathe

The way a secret gets spoken to the trunks of trees all standing in a circle
but goes nowhere
and the wind that turns the leaves is that same wind that carries the spark
and starts the fire.