Scroll marked on light hide
one thousand feet wide
spreads south
from the cliff base (a lover's fall
just past my toes.)
The scroll is time's map
always rewriting itself
as far as the borders and roads
finally clot up to a line,
a dried blood-brown line
Bed for a heavy-breasted sky
overarching with jet planes and stars:
tattoos plastered on the left side,
a limber Egyptian goddess,
her face bent down to treetops.
Exhale green salt, living gales,
and vast, metallic thoughts
into outstretched gray-white arms.
Those arms beckon the setting sun
to stop for a moment, to sing.
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