Wind walks sad shocked bones  
tossed as though Lot's wife had thrown the I Ching  
before the earth spine bowed to stone.  

Wind flutes tumbleweeds, seeds too dry to root  
and the stories lie fallow to their touch  
but two thrushes brush notes  
over the long uneasy sleep.  
Vertebrae articulate angles too oblique to move  
the hide long gone but knuckles remain  
in dried up washes   top soiled.  

Cars hop the sky road    Kremling to Utah's east shore  
but the names burrow back   in the beginning  
words whispered   thunder and clouds  
rained fire down   in the name of meteors  
rained this wasteland once green  
raptors and rapture were one with brontosaurus  
bogged down in his own killing pond.  

Tyrannosaurus tongues   dusty flesh flecks  
ossified   eons of buttes align wasted spines  
rest stops and rabbits brush the sweet grass steppe  
stones   bones big as axles   we see them   crawling  
giant scaled scorpions. 
 

Copyright 2000, Jo Nelson