You crumple in a chair you’ve never liked,
drowning in modernity,
taken by the tides of technology,
longing to escape to unspoilt eras.
Fear a tree, follow a crane fly, feel
choanae sting from the air of a forest.
To wonder where thunder came from,
to pin it on the Gods would be so freeing.
To mix red and yellow to make orange for the first time,
in scrawls upon rocks to show that magic.
Fire. Dance around it, try to hold it.
The pain makes you angry with respect.
Coyotes sing to the moon in the distance-
they still deem it sacred as in your dream.
Half-awake, you massage life into your brain
urging death one of these days.
Then the phone goes,
the 21st century calling,
and you rise like a caveman from a chair you’ve never liked.