Back behind the
Hollering Madrone

Where
Sting by sting the berry
And ghost pine
Tight the sinew four weave
Holy rosary draped upon my torso

Where
Scraped and pushed into the dirt
                        and it did know me

another grave
another death
crust or loam
the terra firma
granite sand
foraminifera
ground down to
silica and chalk

So we take the opportunity to look deeply
Chert the arrow
Through the obsidian eye
And leave it
In the sawgrass
For tomorrow’s finder

There are woman like this
Who can claw their way
Without a shovel
Can push with their hands
Or
Tug lightly

The hollering Madrone
Is screaming and will not
Burn for you

Creator
I am your child
Can sing the Mariner’s Song
Or the wail of the desert and prairie
 
Along the bays or mesas
Cradle Pangaea without faltering

Scoop
Of the mussels
Bite
Of the barnacle
Whip
Of the cold scoop
Fierce overnight cage bloom
Of the dune primrose
Pressed between the psalms
Or rubbed
Into the compass smoke
Toward the God Door