We lumbered beneath
                the slow grind of his boot,
                like common logs,
                surrendering ourselves
                to the odor of winter;
                damp pubis of wool socks,
                blisters like slabs of bacon.
                While the forest became,
                an industrial boot print
                filled with acid rain,
                rivers of glacial piss,
                a blue ox turd
                hardened into a mountain
                we'd never climb.

   Copyright © José Hernando Chaves, 2000.  All Rights Reserved.