Wrist Deep

Write a Poem Right Now?

The red rusted dust brushed our faces
as we began our accent out
of the Grand Canyon. The donkeys
with their ever clobbering clobbers—

and here I start to laugh
because the sound is ridiculous
as if I could pontificate my tongue,
liberate the millennia within the walls

with words. Layers of age.
Pillars of strong rock gathered
like pyres pointing upward toward heaven.
And like them, stratified, we are

not that young, and not entirely that old
while others fold (quietly around us) into the river.