Mosquito

I've lost the taste for the highs and lows                  
the hard journeys of the mind                  
that could twist it to a torus,                
a bland and slow ghost      
of that danger that was once my poetry.                  
Mountains crumble over slow years.                  
Moss consumes the trees                  
trees the earth                  
earth the bones.                  
Even ivy, in time takes the whole house.                  
I fear I'll end                  
ripening in this town without passion.                  
                   
Human chemical, peyote ingested                  
entwined with my mind once                
when two of us, seekers               
and three migrant Mescalero,                 
orange pickers that we'd met,             
dropped-out as deep as we could go                  
in a swamp near Arcadia.                  
Before we'd even built a fire                  
the mosquito took the lead.                  
They had a lesson for us, unfettered                  
by questions, rituals or soul searching.                  
In them the purpose of all life                  
was transparent, holy                  
repulsively corporeal.                  
Pinned down by darkness and peyote                  
the thicket was a tumult of tiny predators.                  
   
Some oranges helped our sickness.  
We slept a bit at daybreak,             
and we did find our answer finally                  
walking back to town                  
sunburned, filthy    
covered with blood.                  
Everything living has a hunger.                  
If you linger too long in any place                  
it will eat you.