The roar at the end of the world

The roar at the end of the world 

is the road at the edge of the cliff

is the calming warmth of a mother 

packing her belongings up, and leaving. 

Yes, I've heard you do it before. That 

was many years ago when the road heaved

up from the lowlands to become highlands. 

The muck descended, the hard warm 

rock strata rose. There is no alarm,

no chalice. This is ancient land, ancient 

feelings. People without electronic means 

of communication. Analog aliens. Primates

with bones and throes and hands. Wringing? 

I'm crouching in the bush waiting for a clear

shot at an animal I'd like to eat. This is the 

way of our ancestors. The animal lives 

in the open, in the forest, eating fish, 

and it is part of life. To take other life. 

To make a living. To dart and to hide, to 

love and to beget kin. To be sexual. To 

love asunder, to fight and climb and 

endure sunburns. To know the plants 

and all of their charms. To help yourself 

to the (      ) embrace of the world.


[Champaign, IL. 06 April 2015]