At Chaco Canyon



Our twilight

Echoed on the stone stairs of summer,

Where one August

We walked all the way to the Jackson Staircase

Under a distant warning of storm light.


It was a Chronos of wind following –

Voices from rocks – an inland tourniquet and turquoise skies –

A long silence of afternoon closing in.


And even with our water running out,

Our ankles held, and we return to the charade of the living –

Where among these perfect ruins,

We sensed a fragile calendar of eternity – continuing –


Held in some Planck-length of love.