Canyon

Nothing is ever happening,
Although it hasn’t started yet.
Winter comes down and dies away.
It leaves behind peculiar clay.

The homes up here aren’t meant for life.
Every roof here is for escape,
Even if only for the day.
No one escaped here yet has stayed.

Up here, the old men are small boys
With fishing poles and defiance.
A few large wives are little girls,
Short silver hairdos permed for curls.

The air is cool. The sun is fierce.
Few visitors stay overnight.
This high, the night’s descent is steep,
And old heads know night plays for keeps.

Girls and boys stay out to play.
This moon will sink along with day.
There is no supper. There is no sleep.
There’s only woods. There is no street.