by Damien Uriah
the present word sleeps
in a wet tennis shoe laid on a tarp
while the nameless bird sings from the south
as if resting in the sky
in another world the river woman sneaks up behind me
her footprints travelling as rocks
the green hands of trees
needles, ovals, nameless shapes
capturers of wind
the wind’s recognition
the gray hands of the far roads
snake lines dug in the mountain
capturers of persons
the brown hands of the mountain
are rounded, worn fingers
capturers of cloud
the sky’s recognition
the green hands grow on the brown hands
do they know of the brown hands as they drink
from their bodies
the white hands of the clouds
grow sick, amorphous, whimsical
capturers of the burning
supplicants of the perfect soul
the water will awaken this dead the water
will awaken this dead one day but for now
the people of the sun are waiting
Damien Uriah grew up on the Oklahoma side of the Ozark mountains. He currently lives in Spokane, Washington, where he writes, studies, and teaches literature. In addition to being a poet, Damien is a stone-mason, gardener, and musician. Some of his poetry can be found in Heron Tree and Three Line Poetry.
