The Present

The cost of flight is landing.

On this warm winter day in the southwest,

down here on the edge of the border I want

to go to France where we all came from

where the Occident was born near the ancient

caves near Lascaux. At home I’m only

sitting on the lip of this black hole, a well

that descends to the center of the earth.

With a big telescope aimed straight down

I see a red dot of fire and hear the beast howling.

My back is suppurating with disease,

the heart lurches left and right,

the brain sings its ditties.

Everywhere blank white movies wait to be seen.

The skylark dove within inches of the rocks

before it stopped and rose again.

God’s toes are buried deep in the earth.

He’s ready to run. But where?