A cold wind
slides over my face.
Puddles freeze, but
the question remains:
When did What
am I? dawn in
a
mind
that in its depths is still only half-enlightened?
Turning over
rocks and other mineral markers here is
another a sign that the Anthropocene had begun; but
it takes more than fifteen minutes to cure it in the sun.
The first
to stand up straight
was the
funniest of them:
the kidder,
the
trickster,
the one whose balls
hung low,
or whose breasts were swollen with Neanderthal milk.
Laughter from
shrubs native to this land. Knowing we
are rooted together, you are at home in this morning's
dew, while I'm just
passing
through.
The sky: R.
Char. From, "Lascaux: Black Stags." M. Hutchinson, trans.