The darkskinned woman chose a soft chunk of red ocre,
and drew a line across her belly: a cesarean birth of art.

From Africa's deserts, Yemen's cliffs, Mongolia's flat table,
a lineage of potters, painters, writers, poets, scoring walls,
hitting computer keys.

I met him in a large room, lined with round,
empty cushions. A small man with shaven
head, what he said was: "Everything dies."

Landing memories, a bird struts across the path chirping
and tweeting. Running down the hill, a man in a red shirt
stops to talk.

I said, "Not many people on the trail today."
"It's fuckin cold, that's why," was his reply.

The creek below is dry with tones of gray.
O Death, you keep fooling us into asking,
When did we become human?