It’s funny how light sifts down, out of itself,
How thin, erasable darkness seeps up and expands,
Gauzing the underworld,
______________________everything suddenly stopped,
No wind, no movement, no words,
The wheel stilled, the crack to the radiant world closing in on itself.
One way of putting it.
____________________Another would be it’s twilight time,
Last clouds chasing each other across the western mountains.
Along the scarred creek bank, nothing stirs.
Dream of the golden fire piece, however,
________________________Is ever-restless, ever-turning.
The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.