dugout
window into ground creatures making paths were here, a track around
i run it, three times clockwise not slipping
harsh breath below in the chest
the tracks over the mound all of the hill is marked
into hard grey fur
the paths with their clear reasons, coming from the ends of
the fields
shadows into water show brown
my skeletonned carcass aboriginal not a civilized
body, i am not a young animal, the sections of the body
separate thin leg my pole the pole set into
water three stones and one in the water, a platform
water when it runs has cut a path also, banks, soft earth
falling out of cut banks below grass rim stones thrown into
this draw it makes a grove, holes, stones thrown, small
trees and larger, polished brown by rubbing backs
the water took on clouds dead and live branches
the aromatic plants, barley over the fence
oh thunder making a long road wandering up there
mosquitoes surface touched constantly by flies
climbed a tree, strong round plant ladder
sat in a fork at the top round leaves flashed
you're far away you forget
i was at a place
that was a dugout
that had trails made by animals
i made a simple wharf and a sign
and liked the shadows in the water that were
brown
you don't know how far away i am from you and
i think i asked you whether you could
help me to measure
and you were phantoms
again and again it's history
that i want to do away with
(cough)
and speak of in this voice
that doesn't believe itself
nor this one either
i made a fire i made fire
but then who are they
i made myself someone who would see them
as i do see them
or who would not be able to bear to see them
they - she knows about literature, but
she doesn't want to know about this
hurried home to burn their pictures, sacrifice
something
of theirs
hurried back to the slope of the hill, sleeping bag,
thinking of loose earth, grass comes up around it, those
silvery plants, feathery ones
pale blue and pink sky the moon on the left and the sun
going down on the right
indian hill indian bones
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