Some things need to be saved, but not poetry’s
shuffle of words to fit an illusive moment
like shackles and chains bound in a book,
not the euphoric epiphanies we stumbled onto
out on the trail alone, or running the dark roads
between settlements of distant light, not those
rambling soliloquies when the radio fades
to poor company. It’s a solitary game
on the other side of numbers, pat answers
and scientific proof—primal sounds to mark
a trek beyond the veil of certainty shuffled
with the landscape and its latest inhabitants.
drycrikjournal 