Wednesday, September 10, 2008

A Thistle, The Moon

Imagine opposite the church. Or Richard Hugo chasing dogs through the rainy hollow. Sickle in the sky pointing down.

Coin in hand, simple umber. What better way to preempt the dead than through prayer. My dreams all funneled through a head cold.

An old geezer in bike gear. Worries about global stability give rise to folk songs. What I've never heard raised hackles.

The numbers "didn't add up." Two for flinching! And fairness, too, somehow figures in.

A black field in which pale ovals hovered, eventually held to be faces. Memory wrapped in a quilt. Whosoever amongst you shall plant camellias . . .

He wrote, gleefully, surprised. The hatchet appeared to be singing at the base of the tree. Strategy was the plan, it always was.

"How it changed to soft rust underneath." The down of a thistle, the moon on your thighs.

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