(back to Bode
     Hall home)


by fallen stick
both ends dry up and fray
flakes of superfluous dirt
encrusted bark waft up in a sudden
warm breeze
and blow away

little ever open eyes
alternating bump by bump
on the smooth naked surface
find each other, nudge gently almost
infinitesimal jump

by the time they meet
nothing remains but dust
narrow wind shaped ridges
of scalloped tributaries collide
the lee side
trembles at each gust

I am poking holes in the earth

with my pinky finger
but the topsoil has left me
kneeling over clay
each socket takes years to free

The whisper on my shoulders
a fence dam reservoir
bowl temple where my long
neglected gods
can collide into heavy nuclei

This shortest night
I am full of holes
and starting on sticks

-skyler, midsummer 1999