Half the world is lost in the canyon, half of the market
and of the lamplight, and half the raspy voices of children
who eats stones for breakfast. Half the world is lost.
Do not be worried. It was always lost.
Italy, Mongolia, Zaire lost to ambition and to the canyon.
Brazil lost to water, America to the whales.
Behind the waterfall, a face like a dance. And a moon-slit
just about the horizon. Truly,
what was once loved is lost in the canyon.
When mouths fill with sand, remember how it got like this,
when desire moved rightly down the oldest streets,
when it was so many beautiful children
pouring their granite faces across the alleys,
where they'd be lost until night itself was an alley of stone.