(untitled)

The old woman walks with her fear 
into the apologetic landscape 
born of the dead, forgotten years 
that will not recall her name. 

She thinks of blonde young men, 
of shotguns, fast cars, the patience 
to sharpen rock spears. 

No other travelers in sight. No words, 
no chaos, no faces save her own. 

She could tell many stories of the noble dead 
were there an audience other than the indifferent planets. 

She walks free of loneliness. 

She arrives at a beach, perhaps 
minnows moving invisibly beneath the water. 
The years have been visited with much generosity 
nor has she grown cynical counting the days, 
months, years that might remain. 

The old woman walks with her fear. 
Terror becomes meaningless. 

****