Night photo

Brine

1.

we are Myriad;

old lives as cobblestones;

(bared-teeth), sunk

in Earth.

Our memories;

(scaffold-shapes,

mica-schist):

loom over us,

from Four Sides of Consciousness:

as the embedded thing in mud (green circle),

as the adobe bricks steaming in the rain (brown dust),

as the smoke from the distant storm (red circle),

as the sour yellow smell of wet chamisa rising from the plain (spinning circle).

2.

when I lived in New Mexico, the

adobe houses would cluster together wetly in storms.

the lashes of rain would darken even the red dust,

under the trucks, and

rusted car shells.

3.

Here, powdered-iron and

Creosote

hang heavy in the air,

and like (metallic) wet

steel wool,

Coagulate,

(inside particles of storm wind,

nestled in their own-made nest).

4.

The wet brine of a west Texas afternoon,

Creeps

through my backyard window,

Reading furtively,

unbeknownst (to me),

the chicken stock and lentils

hum quietly on the darkening stove.

ELG

2010