Читать книгу Pictograph - Melissa Kwasny - Страница 13

THE SHAMAN’S CAVE

Up in long steps through heat to heat, each tree a station where we recover. O, un-diseased trees, who hold a place for us. That the earth was such a place. Place your hand there. Or rather, there were pools here, but they are dry now, smeared with guano. From this nest, Thou directs. The cold winds leap. Our valley, murderous, far below. Unnatural green of our truck and of our pasturage. Is this the state of our interior—barren? Is this where the waxwing song—plummets? All people still dream. The thresholds appear, arcs stained with hematite, red ochre. Which give way to zigzags and stars. Until the line that divides the world in two snaps. Until we lose all courage before this cause. From deep within, something tosses the tops of the highest trees. We are without shields. Intrinsic lack of the right weapon: possible bear, possible star figure, possible god.