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Saturday, July 15, 2006

Back-country drive poem

Terse

Radiant Number 8 gravel a rougher bed
than shell roads you said, and I said yes.

Heat makes the air dance baked shimmy-shake
mirages pooling in rut-roads, flouring us with
dust the color of talc, but no mind. We’re gone
down to where there is nothing but bent grass
and dry sunflowers, all the everynothing, to
listen to the vast chirring terse once stopped.

6 comments:

Dick the Boomer said...

I can feel the heat in the air. But there's more there than heat and dust.

Ed Maskevich said...

Very nice, I can almost smell the heat of summer.

Laura said...

I suppose you spin and weave and milk cows and weld and play the saxophone, too? Is there NOTHING you can't do, you wizard??
Very strong images, transporting rhythms, too.

MB said...

Oh, this is fine! The consonants, the rhythms, making their own shimmy-shake with your images. Sounds like some roads I know around here.

Shafer said...

Makes me miss Texas.

kasturi said...

love this poem, girl. i'm there with you - "no mind... in the everynothing"