you wander far, through crags and cliffs and conifers, where the earth still looks torn and wild.swamp? what swamp. none here
only
pink and green and blue and green and yellow and green
and white
and soft pale mud, and fumaroles, and funerals: bones on the edge of rainbow lakes.
heat and angry water and the steam without warning, an assault from all sides. do not breathe. do not move. just watch, if you can.
at times like this you should not compose poetry. definitely should not.
"the fumes that rise
from gemlike pools;
it burns the eyes.
such caustic jewels."