Lauren Camp
OLDER TIME
I pocket a small chunk of chert from the outcropped crust,
not to rob but to ongoing caress a particle of this trail
with a friend. Land hauls or drops down. We turn toward
then away from each breeze, pelvis to hamstring, the distance half-
empty in roughhousing rocks. Eras slice through inseparable
from another repetition. A ridge straddles the tangible past
and I ascend—proof of an arranged side of rupture.
The explicit sun rides the rough ground.
When vast clouds hammock, we wade back in the little river,
our feet in the slime. Cold pours down the trees and the mountains
and we are through the opening we took, our pulses soft,
our scars in flight. Now I want to scrub off me the dirt
of the more normal world. Stand only by cliffs
where we saw ourselves in unhurried myths.
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