By Morning
Janine Canan
I've been mapping out the roads, going on foot. Scruffy woods, low brush, and a sticky view that doesn't go far. But I've been going round the land, marking down the paths, getting the general shape of the place. I especially like the hills' huge grassy thighs, dry and well worth mounting. Upon them I can see the sky's long restful line. And when at night the sun goes below, I alone crawl down their side and prowl across the land, out to that secret thing lying like a crushed skull in the middle of the landscape--a crater filled with dark. There I crouch and stare, at that socket that stares back as if it will never stop asking questions. Later I am invited into the depths of the cavern, where the teeth are hung--hammered and finely tooled copper, gold and silver. I am not scared and wind back out to the road by morning.
