Monday, November 19, 2012


The flint switch won't work
because feathers have melted into
the crevices of the hammer platform,
rendering the piston too moist to fire radiance.
I'll have to buff the slats and strip
the platform in a citrus solvent when
I get back to camp. Sorry to digress. Anyway, I'm
steady out in this blue field we read about
in the guide book. They were right: There
are plenty of glorious dawns and all
that, but it doesn't make up for the sound
of human voices chanting things they need
or want. Nor are the songs of the village
resonating in my chest like they used to.
The other day two small rocks that fit neatly
in the palm of my hands became the click beat
for one of my delightfully corrugated songs
about my situation. I've been feeling purposefully
obscure and throaty in this place. Someday I hope
we can shuffle into the field on some distant
bold bonnet night and flick vegetable paint
on the dirt in bright crisscross patterns
like we used to. I bet you'd like that.


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