If We Must Be Symbolic, Let Us Also Be Frank
       

What floats in the air is foundling and sleight
as sun seems red at set or rise
pressed through a greater volume of dust

than at yellow noon. This is what lies
between us, rock-jut hump
of bison curled unnaturally cat-like

in paint on a wall at Altamira, song
long-polished by our looking. It tricks
us it too sees. Arrange curls strange

into lip and precipice, edge
grasped that says here was a place
we made known. Beyond hedge

what lies? Enleafed, eyes hide
caustic, beetled. What would we find?
                          Where would we look?

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Copyright © 2015 Bryan Narendorf All rights reserved
from Crazyhorse
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission