The Caterpillar Wars

Posted on 03 November 2009

We climb the trail of hard tack and belligerence,
one foothold at a time, one handhold at a time,
our bodies pressed against rock and limb,
the ridge a door opens to palisades
rich with water and droppings, carnivores and calcite,
a knife reserved for some of us.
We are on our way to the caterpillar wars,
night long with sleep, day too hot for breathing.
The rock climber knows the inside of rock,
the footpath earth, the broken rowboat
its gravel grave, all of the grass the grass beside it.
Please. Take this staff.
Things are less angry here,
less full of quantity, of a tenor in voice.
Soon we will be between thick fences,
then forests, then where the horse hunters live
and everything is not always good.
Here is the town of unequal opportunity
and the river running through it little more than sink water
overrunning its basin drop by drop.
You know, everything in the world begins
as a puddle and then turns to mud.


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