Friday, October 16, 2009

tributary



tributary

sulphur leaked out from under his knee caps.
the insects busy chewing ligaments.
The version of himself, by anomalous intersection,
that carefully folded some clothes beside the trail, took off some ugly shoes,
looked behind one last time and turned off into loss, into the woods.
To be nearer the fallen, the previous,
the after,
returning to the living, the many.
Closer, hopefully, to the larger jaws. Full predators.
red grizzly and the peppery, puppy-dog breath in wolf.

The sound against sounds!
Then a brief reprieve,
no shudder, no flock joining the air.
Just the concern of many
eyes looking left then right, left then right.
And like a Swift, the return of normalcy.

The son of a deadman. The son of the dead.
Carefully, expecting pain, his foot sank into the folding forest floor,
the wonder of the cushion, the comfort, the deadwood as living down.
orange moss soothed the bottoms of his feet;
kindness of nature--- his last relief.

The largest rocks were held with lichen, with the texture of a puzzle.
The pines watched silently, the bark still sharp, sapping
at that moment
beyond the obvious clumsy subtraction---
AH! the recoil! the abruptick-ick-ick
and the momentum seemed to slow and be the most injurious.
Reflexive motion: the Rifle-butt scraped his poor shin.
It beat him by force back down to the earth.

Restrained, the Sky above never skipped, no,
with tranquility it hung everywhere, noticing
the hirsute core, the length of the limbs, the spidery legs, the arms of poplar
improbably, perfectly, crossing his trunk.
The moment didn't urgently approach,
it came with a (new) calm and by (old) sorrow both.
a slow collection of embers, just.

on the leaves, in the trees.
The autumn bed filtered the litres clear
until further along, down the hill,
the glacial stream, two feet wide and two feet still,
until almost 5:30, had a fresh tricklin'.
ritualized water flowed in.
seventeen minnows congregated amongst the new water,
somehow eager in the warm diffusion.

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