Stratum: Some Red Place

It was my assumption that the internet did not

make a sound. My fingers typed

while I watched from a sporting bleacher,

cheering my hurrah like a beached seal.

Whatever I was looking up, it was sandy.

It had to be wrought in pieces,

for soft feet like a yielding surface to tread.

I vaguely remember searching my candy bag

When my tongue got hungry, and finding nothing.

I remember when my hands learned

        to follow lines,         to lag,

               and my head trail

                      knew not

                           to trail, to lag

               knew not trail

     and my head lag—

to follow lines

I grew stiff like cardboard

and got wet in the rain

I hadn’t noticed.

My skull molded to the pressure of the wind.

It was like a soft hammer thump.

Loose particles jumped from the red rock

Of the arch I stood beneath

  In Southern Utah or some red place

  In which I laid with my body

  searing the connected sandstone

that concealed the yawning blue sky

onto the backs of my eyes.

  I see it even when I don’t look,

  like the words inked on a prize page

  neatly sandwiched by hard bookends.

On the internet, I caught Delicate Arch.

I halted my search, lingered on the strata.

The window of the arms was carved, supported.

Ah, the shape was crafted, but not the stone.

The stone was in the bleachers.

My assumption was right:

the breath exhaling from the internet

had truly come from me.