The Plains

You’ve heard it said that the mountains are topped with cities in the mists of heaven,
that the gods reside as far from us as the heights of Earth will seat them.
I say go down to the plains where the giants cannot hide and so are never seen,
for as long as we’re with them, they’ll stay up on the knobs of the devil’s spine.

You’ve heard it said that there is death in the valleys where the bones are frozen
in the shapes of strange animals that simply quit moving. You’re near the aching heart of Earth.
I say go up to the plains where Flesh and the firmament meet in a shifting skin of grass
where the ghosts are pooling up knee-deep and miles wide with names the length of songs.

You’ve heard that the ocean is filled with the progeny of human wonder,
that your footprints wash out into the water and salt the past with your presence.
I say walk through the plains where tide-less time has absorbed the shore,
where your footprints wash away in sound and the ghosts can barely believe you exist.