What's the point?

 

OOZE MUSE

Here where the rim sub ducts and slides
on basalt's upper crust thrust high
I stick like cactus to the side
await another north ridge lurch.

My pulse arrhythmic or intact
blood rushing in the crush of silt
melodic sounds erupt from derm
ride on the wave of poem-birth.

Copyright 2007 Maggie Westland