As if they carry water to the top of it,
neatly. Then the return trip is a downpour--
several hundred tinted drops,
lime juice, very little blood but some,
blue spray shaken from a tree...

Water takes longer than baskets to stitch,
to make it rush, water sewn to drop.
It cannot be collaged from the fall-foot up.
I believe in a trail to the top.

Baskets hang all down and up the precipice's
dress-form for this spill
of shredded dresses.

It is hot. This water is torn from heat.
Along a pulley suspend the picnics
a long workday threads into its holiday,
fancies.

      My pleasure, my pleasure
always at the patch-stone brink...

(At the base of one falls, in a glacial canyon,
I saw a skink on a rock
see me and run.)

Now the first basket is passing.
Dustbowl moon, I have pieced even you a drink.