Stolen things

The sediment wearing away the valley's belly
took with it my backpack
and only shoes, from under the cover of trees.

The passport drowned
in miscommunications.
The camera spoke only English
and failed to eat,
starved itself and killed
the filled journal
in hopes of fulfillment only
to find none.


The socks made a break from the shoes and were rescued amongst the dry river stones.

The socks climbed up the mountains when they had regained consciousness
searching under and above
the cactus spines
and picked up the
hitchhikers
under the hot sun.

The asphalt they walked upon snaked next to the river.
It became burnt moments after the canyon walls
ate up their own shadows
making the travelers prickly in annoyance that no rides stopped. The socks had to pick off the
hitchhikers when they
arrived at the point
that no backpack or shoes would be found.

It was then they realized
the fibers, alone, gave them strength
and they moved on.