Chicano Poet

Monday, November 13, 2006

Inner Landscape

ten clouds drifted overhead,
their shapes pre-determined,
sunlight traveled for nothing,

stones pockmarked the surface,
dust devils rose into the sky
to breathe.

Who could love you there?
Hair and arms free
from everything we have,

landscape after landscape
bereft of anything green
like this latest war.

Man has come here
in his mechanical form,
roaming his fingers over you,

looking for history in your torso,
in your arms, in your thighs,
the barren past seems so important

but not to the eons of you,
no, you don’t care about the past or future
and it is so damned obvious.



Post a Comment

<< Home