ancient

so this is the ocean receding

and this is the mountain where it stands

dry desert; the ghosts of pounding waves

the heat dries salty wounds





i opened a bag to find the relics of our time in the desert
pulling out each one, the memory came back
the shells turned agate
in a million (some) years,
they foreshadow this moment

in our early dawn you captured that favorite image
the dry desert of owyhee

and now
that is where we are,
where we live

all scattered with shells

and empty