Et and Other Poets

The mind is a long walk home, dinosaurs unnamable litter the green turf of our travels. Reptiles shrink to birds, the larger birds collapse like balloons eventually running out of sky. Lizards rest in the top nest of every reaching spine. Some imagine waking up still travelling with Walt Whitman and other old guys, all those long-winded words sticking to boots as the company plods forward, while a slow-eyed crocodilian lifts one bejeweled and crusty eyelid watching for signs of new life. Space returns to the surface of the world ancient and rootless spreading an alien gossip & streaking unmasked through Area 51. We are not home yet, we are the infants of lumbering mammals, more nimble and able to see over mountain tops. Let us walk the way the pygmies do, leaving no shadows for the sun to eat, trusting only in one naked thought after another, yet and all, still able to pilfer the horizons of giants, as if home where just one more warming ice age away.