John Fowler, "In Little Death Hollow Canyon," 2015
It’s just that this poem, these words, my alphabets, are forgeries. The provenance smells right—redolent of crushed gravel, resin and eye-sting of cedar pollen, dried mud—but they’re intended to fool us into feeling what’s not there, lead us to believe (myself most of all) in this edited world. Any real thing is unfixable, evanescent, if it’s real at all; what I share’s a simulacrum.
And yet, and yet, there’s something else here: an indelible ink, passed from mouth to mouth, hand to hand, flashflood washing down through this dry slot canyon, up then splashing over my poor thin fakery, making it as real as any world that holds us both.