Idaho

It's out there, somewhere on those brown
Basalt rocks: what is left of my spirit,
So badly diminished by years on these
Paradoxical plains, which are lethally
Limitless, also confined. A spirit there
Dissipates as it is crushed. In the end,
If there's anything left, it must limp
Toward the cliffs and the mountains,
Where it once had thrived, and hope
That it isn't too injured to heal, in the sun,
By the sagebrush, the brown basalt rocks.




Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 28 times
Written on 2020-02-08 at 15:11

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