jagged cliff gripping to air
over the dry riverbed
made for water
not by it.
right names into the rock.
the eye of the needle
an opening in the doorposts
back embracing the cool of rock
feet flat against the blackberry cliff.
the dizzying whir of height and air
whispered memory of the security
of a perch between
the white of the sky is nothing but clouds and turkey vultures
voicing their dominion
or at least reminding us that they are the hosts
and we the visitors, but
we are not here to know the sky.
some say the devil is in these cliffs,
afraid of being known,
persuading it is better you go back to
the needling whir of cars and computers, but
we are not here to know the devil.
my fingers lick the crevice of the cliff
with the wisdom of whirls and ridges,
seeking truth in rock
face pressed against the clammy stone.
I breathe the scent of time like
a mother’s skin
a cloud of memory and
the intimacy of one murmuring voice
no more still than the trickle of water dancing down the cracks
beckoning to be known.