The Poetry Society

I am glad of the slip

and slide of a hoof,

of another breath

beside me, as we go

dismounted, shoulder

to shoulder down

the rock. Nothing

but the airless cliff

and cloud shadows still

as coal seams. Nothing

but the compressions

of the strata. Only

my own company,

the voices I can hear

under my breath: hers

dark, with such brio

every word has its

animal life; one honed

to an edge of light;

and some with sadness

in their very timbre,

Chavela Vargas

singing to her black dove,

the unholy ghost

of all her benders,

Bola de Nieve

holding to a love

against the forces of

la ley y la razón;

all interwoven

and all worn into

the song of the path,

one breath of many.