If You Ever Get Famous, Remember Your Dead Relatives


On the other side
in desert heat amongst the flies on animal hide,
canyons run deep.

Below in the trench
water runs forever quicker licking the sides, a fifth sense:
water splash, white liquor.

It oozes up past the brim,
there to be mopped up by grass and root growing wastefully thin,
in dense earth covered up by shrub.

A wound to the landscape
precedes the beauty of form, line and shape
that the canyon sees as long term commitment.


Out in Afghanistan where this canyon lays,
medics surround it in a bloody, utensil filled haze,
with Corporals shouting the canyon’s praise
as it lies catching a breath.
A breathing canyon is nothing but a success,
but one effected by our own contributions to this untidiness
means that we’re a player short for the end of season,
kick-around bash, in the courtyard  behind the mess.