Dead Horse Point
Tuesday, July 14th, 2009by P. G. Karamesines
The weedy clouds of spring
Grow on the peaks, break off, then drift
In tall gardens over sandstone blue
With the bruise of squalls. I stand
Two thousand feet above the coils
Of a river that has burnt its way,
Leaving behind the red stubble
Of the canyons. Buds of lightning
Burst and wither at once;
The air is rutted with [...]