in the abyss—the selfishness and pride,
the casual indifference, or just
oneself. Two aging bikers stop—a man,
a woman—cut their engines, and resume,
before they even look around, the quarrel
they gave up briefly on the road. It makes
me turn away in shame for those who waste
their love. A stone dislodged slips slowly down,
then by its own momentum frees itself
and plunges through the scraggly juniper
along the cliff side, pinging boulders high
above the river, then descending, deep
and finally invisible, at rest,
perhaps with grass that pearls along the slope,
or in the water’s sinuous, green truth.
No fall can free me thus, not even death,
from the morass of acts, a tangled net
cast retrospectively. The only way
goes past the drop-off, upwards, toward the blue
San Juans, in sunlight, and Grand Mesa’s prow,
which tacks among the clouds and sweeps its way
across, proposing new departures, knots
cut through, great roadsteads, and immense desires.
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