permanent impermanence...
those impressions
we leave,
discarded 'til
erosion returns,
to clean,
and remake,
to wash away,
so smooth again,
like lost whispers
that remain.
looking out,
up, across,
and finally within
the horizon will fade.
Prochida and Neruda
out on the horizon
rises a white cliff
of clustered dwellings
once the home
of Neruda
-
gathered
with others
isolated defiance
angular facets
void of green
-
Prochida calls out
in hopeless abandon
our path will not vary
out in the ocean
a cliff still stands.
-
