We come to a canyoned place
with the odd name of Box,
once a cave, perhaps, until geology
crushed its roof and opened its water
to course for eternity. Broken souls
stumbling in wilderness, walking
into a terrible layered beauty
of sharp colors, jagged piercing
ridges and sides, center points
tearing at our self-sown shrouds.
We walk: alcoholic, addict, convict,
poet, inhaling dust of generations,
the stream beside us the eyes of God
watering the sorrow of the earth.
Photograph by L.L. Barkat.