the world did not change
but we did. Only we
could place a rose
where once a brain
responsive to instinct

dwelt just to be tamed.
Never have we understood
wildness bending us.
Gawking at the museum
or drifting

in the desert, bending
is the ultimate gesture.
Art is nothing
but bleaching sun,
the transfiguration

of wind recording
for the sake of time – sand
covering our feet, dead
gas deep in night – darkness
streaming as light.

first published in Concho River Review
vol. 29 no. 2, Fall 2015, p. 88