Banks of light and rivulets of blood.
Bison, wolves, bears roam; marauders
came by. They occupied, savaged.
They saw nature. They bore sons.
If all that is gold is a contract with the
wilderness, the selfishness of man
cannot be struck. If the moon and the
ice tripping valley, if bear rugs and
caved fish, if the wind within the water,
and if native prayers are also gold,
the sacrosanct claws of humanity
tumble, scatter, but remain of the land.
Innards don’t know duality, they don’t
yet know the stabs. Skin ice and fire
dance under taller treetops and
downier mountains. Rivers of battle
span a failing duality. The elk move on.
He breathed onto my face even
after I was buried. He carved a timbre
of eternity. He bears resemblance to
his twilight mother. His warring clans
branch him up, not the marauders.
He is my son. Mine are his innards.
Is nature family, or human nature?
I tumble onto conifers, my trail of air
and blood is exposed. I seethe,
croak, and make life of facts. Among
the gods moving in these mountains,
there is no known ought. Fire is both
a sacrifice and a bloody invention.