Arts

Until We Died

By Wesley Houp

Everything that is happening
now was happening before.

Fall Creek fell
through its channel.

The black calf grazed
on glade savory
along the fissures.

The false aloe,
its raceme advancing
skyward with crazy junk.

Each nascent blossom
was true only
to itself.

We went up and down a day
as if a moment could
hold back every future
until we died.

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.