Camps
E.K. Krieg

Sleeping. It comes first,
on the Delta. Next, the piles of rocks,
smooth and forgotten by the river,

next, the hash marks I drew in the dirt
with a stick, with my finger. We are distant neighbors,
on the Delta, united by proximity

but isolated by dialect,
and the illustrations we hide in folds
of paper serve no purpose when

there is no breeze, and our planes
fail to catch.

1996 © 2012