SHERRY SAYE

 

Blood Games Of Contented Love

Down the shadow-colored corridor of the canyon,
an echoing storm booms dissent.

Do you feel what I see, the noisy birds
streaking behind seed heads,

the writhing of the sun, a glimmering pull
across sanctuaries.

The settled lines in your body reach toward me,
the aspen tremble and clap the yellow rules of the sky

and through the grasses I ask,
"Who are you in all of these forms, slicing into my skin?"