The sky is ochre to banish

mosquitos. Still there’s

the comet-hole at the apex;

within reeds by one creek

dry from folding

continental shelves — ice

ages at the seams — they

lower their spears,

drop the snake carcass

in a liver-pouch. The basso

of the Lord quivers

the wilted stalks. Their hands

wouldn’t crack the smooth

mountain of body. The Lord couldn’t

digest them, do them harm, even

offer challenge. What’s dangerous rests

still in the voice, low, light

as breath. They feel its tremolo in

bent, unselected ribs. Where

—    it echoes, like water

underground —  art thou?

They lie, more

still than any tree-root, aware

of their bodies, rumbling

teeth, the air on one’s open

skin. A quiet is wholly

widening. The not-voice

ambles into a nearby clearing

of scrub-forest, almost

a garden, under the sun, red.