the muse calls me
in earthy rumblings,
in the guise of Navajoes
and smoke.

the weight of the world
is not love
but poetry--

an explosion of roses
expelled into the stratosphere.

the skies bleed
in a mortal ecstasy
of the human soul,
its virulent passions
permeate and bring color
into the absurd forces
which brought nameless death
to mastodons and winged creatures,
slumbering in the bed of all things.