THE CANYON
I recall the canyon's orange,
Hear the silence speak.
It is speaking about blonde hair
Spread out on stone.
I know I belong
in that stone garden
cultivated by weather,
where hips are shaped by the wind,
breasts shaped by the rains.
Now away from the canyon,
I have an address,
but I don't know where I live.
I am somewhere inside a fence;
everything seems far away.
My street a graveyard
that the dead have deserted.
Duane Locke
Posted over on Poetry Magazine
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