Long After

Ash on the wind
a taste of time on the tongue,
riverbeds dried and cracked
like fossils of abandoned bones,
divination here easy as dreaming,
voices silent as absent water.

Words dry as dead leaves,
memory or imagination
the only stuff still flowing,
as if anyone is left to notice
a crow's skull crushed underfoot
is the only history in sight.

And our tracks all the way

back to broken wheels,

all the way ahead into nightfall,

scattered fires here and there

lifting up smoke and embers,

fragrant offerings to fossilized gods.

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Originally published by Black Horse Review, online, September 5, 2024

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