by Chris Davidson

As young men crossing the plains, we looked
for what was heard of at one time:
sheltered valley orchards, fresh springs
and fertile soil. What we found instead
were lizards creeping from bush to bush, slow
creatures crushed under the hooves of our stock,
cacti, and water rising up from cracks
in the earth. The water tasted like ash.

When we returned, our wives searched our eyes
for visions, but there was nothing to see.
So we took our places in bed beside them,
sharing in sleep the same dreams, growing
it seemed like vines from our heads
(some would say hearts), but rooted
elsewhere, rising and tangled like vines
binding oaks over a narrow stream.

We found ourselves, we couldn’t say why,
standing in their shade out of the sun, where
you can sense in the nose and on the skin
the thin vein of water feeding all of it.
From a distance, in an otherwise
featureless landscape, the trees are a strip
of green fire, subdued and immovable,
ever burning. A boundary. A scalable wall.

• Welcome to Entasis.