The Fate of Our Mating

The Fate of our Mating

Sought out in safety for so long,

Putting pins in dolls, mesmerizing with chicken blood the sinister plagues
and the destitution of not having enough water.

The great melt and die off is on.

A beautiful morning, creased and green from the rain,

The misty ultimate lodged as drowning in the heart, the deep well,

The circumambulation of the times and person sleeping and candles flickering.

The dialect of dying tribes inscrutable as the stone tablets of the last great extinction

Written in worm tracks, root dents and the boundaries of sea and land cut

by the river full of silt and flood.

She is full of silt and flood and mourning, bright as green with sprouts in black soil,

Heads in sunshine, maize waving.

The breeze is the thing, or the currents under the water moving kelp like,

Hair suspended , like an indecision in ourselves, working, staying or going.

Given long thought, we do nothing.

The future pulls as hard as the past.

We pull over to the side of the road.

A place where the weeds and garbage thrive.

Put down your money.

Take up the cause of the melting glacier,

The calve of its weight frozen fifty thousand years

Now cleaved and rushing salty water, a plunge and

Your hands in a rubber boat, braced for the wave.

Stop time falling.

Gather weeds for food from the margin.

Get in touch with your feelings.

A sauce of tomatoes bubbles on the stove.

We dug the garlic from our own garden.

The crows circle.

The fish guts from the trawler and factory ship are thrown overboard.

She had a dream that coming to her own home, she had to enter

through a tunnel or a cave submerged in water.

We are the bright fish of the moment.

We are the slaves chained together.

The frigate birds are overhead and like gulls they squall and dive, circle and fly.

The little staircase from the basement to the sky.

Poverty rules the land.

The windows all seem like mirrors.

The bright color of her bangles and eyes as a mist over a river.

The water slides by.

The morning sounds stir.

The light of dawn breaks the trees.

She had some more to say so had a big breakfast.

We put in for a week off to lay in bed.

It seemed worth it to protect everyone else, the old and the young.

The fate of our mating, the subterranean and the sky with a wet sprinkle of

Moon and mist for atmosphere and forgetting is that more ore is turned to metal,

Trifling papers shuffle and a new mind,

a way to make tea and words as hibiscus and lavender are left on an open grave –

The under dirt not so good for growing.

Go ahead and have your say.

The sirens and genies, the heroes and bards have the same escalator and

with sack lunches we can go to the green hill and

breathe above the city that seems an animal not unto ourselves, but we take it,

Invest in the night and sleep a thousand years.

Rolf's Poems and Pictures

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