Spring 1988 • Vol. X No. 2 Poetry |

Nsangweni Cave Paintings

In the panic hour we turn and run from the healing eland. Blood flows from our nostrils. The trance takes hold but the imagined wings do notbear us up. We overlap one another, beast / man. Legs tangle ankle / hock. We no longer run on our own feet when we follow in one frieze like running fire the white veins, rock rivers. We are no longer in our time. We are all of us running down, running down.

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