Seven years past
and we mistake
this ancient majesty
for
lack of
lucid double-takes
or absence of
straining the neck
past it’s makers mark.

Bellies no longer
dizzy in the aftermath
of the elevated mother

as

we hydrate in salt baths
we lap up the dead lakes
we lie in empty reservoirs
in homage to her.

It is no stone
we pick up
and eye in wonder,
this dark art
is in the mirror
and not a place
we go to bury
our sorrows
in order to
dig up wildflowers
several months later

anymore.

It need not be that
and we are glad
though we often pine
it’s existence
like desperate
new fools.