We fell to the earth
in a reckless body of white fire
exploding in the dark
against the formless pale sediment.
We cut a bowl in its rock
loosing the water from its shut eyes,
carving rivers out of the land
and flooding the world with sound
Years later, we returned to the water to drink;
our fingers traced the tattooed rock, the swirling rainbow of ancient soil,
but we could not recognize the imprint of our body
Because we had become lost in the motion,
in the ceaseless beginning of everything everywhere:
perplexed, we called it time and left.
*In the Quechua language, the word “pacha” means both land and time.
About the Poet
Nick Hilbourn lives and works near Philadelphia. He writes columns and articles for Defenestration, Pointsincase.com and headstuff.org. He blogs at largethingslargerthings.