January 17, 2010

Hemlock slush

Slushy hemlock tromp tracking turkey under rock and ice pillars though a dying city
water dropping off  the edge falling over frozen ways
footholds in fallen leaves
grand houses of brick and fern and evergreen
souls holding on mesticious as dead beech leaves
linger hanging
green pools, snow white and drooping, ice chunks dangle and cackle, wet air fresh on the tongue and throat and


demon in her breast and one that Flowers At Night narrated in a British accent, looking for electric poles

streams of crow drift to sleep.

White rooms with wide mirrors be here now and on and on till eyes close and we are one with dark nothing

pits in the macadam are all the Snowfog has left us - obscured and gone missing: entire truck stops, whole neighborhoods, hillsides, floating home in a mysterious Unthank felt and not seen.

I wished I'd brought my camera at least seven times.

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