Friday, September 04, 2020


Lead Mines, Clough, Rivington UK,
Gary Gray, Date Unknown

The excavation’s long since stalled
out. Digging the sough, I mean. “To
mine the lead, we need to draw the
water table down, to draw the water
down we need to dig, but the picks
were left behind, were lost, and so
am I.”
There’s a shallow ditch, or the
shape left behind where you fell. Oh.
Oh. This geology, these mines, clay
under my fingernails that smells like
the last kiss I gave you—atop your
head as you dozed at the computer,
blue-gray light from the screen like
a caul, wrapping us both. But I left
the room to go to bed, and you, my
dear, fell, then crawled, then left,
and still I can’t drain this sough.

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