Wednesday, February 4, 2009


This wooden plate upon which you hide to see
what needs seeing, where you get up early
to hear the owls, curse if you must but whisper
and shake vines with lightest breath,
go then to the creek with its moving shells,
drift as eye-flicker in tall grass. It is here.
Each day it is here, you will tick at it with
your fingers first, dab them in ink made by
what you have in your palm, stain-wise.
Ten thousand years from now your mother
scuttles above the mud to see what you saw:
a man in animal head-dress, shaken, raw.


This is a draft version of a poem about which I am completely unsure as to final form.

Labels: , , , , , , ,


Post a Comment

Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]

<< Home