All the human languages sound down the trail
As the forest light as air shivers in sun
But there's silence at the bottom,
Even shoes on the crisp, porous shards
Are swallowed in the dome.
Red broomsedge on the sulfur fields,
New ruby ferns in cracks
That extend like blacktop miles after a quake.
No horses, no welcome,
None of that arrogant green
On the old lava fields, just
The steaming womb of the earth
Bringing the work in.
