The Tradewinds say me like a word. Oaks, they know my lurk. Hardy larkspur, faintly blue, we speak frankly of poison. Largo wood rat spotted bobcat, we’re three afraid of hunger and all go fever at throngs. Hovers the vulture speck high, as I thrumming the strings of the sun. Yet parts of me and the musty rock have never known the light, where like the redfin pike so deep we swim for silence.
The Fall Of ’51
Any of you remember mean boys burning cats to bone and ash in boozy alleys? The flash, the air’s flush, the flesh and fur that does the senses awful cautery. I do. Remember it. A shortcut taken behind the old apothecary behind Orlowski’s bar. A tender wayward hopscotch home. Hooks me. the final cry before the furnace. Hooks me. the smell of small sicknesses. Tinder of time. Today I see a man, stretched across a davenport, quiet autumn day, sudden feels a shudder, an utter smoky chill, at the smell of burning leaves.