Wednesday, October 21, 2009


please note that the line spacing is specific to the word document and thus some elements of the poem bellow are not as they were intended to be.


Within some great ox of industry rumbling through the land,
as an earthquake the sleeping forest-

In the night the mountains are black;
men sling lights from their lintels,
attempting to throw sight into the moorless voiding darkness.
These yellowed pools shudder past in a haste,
island ages gone nearly afore they can be sorted from the brightness

Dawn comes a sudden misting glow
Mounds of stone passing in and out of fog as morning dreams of a mind long awake.
Hills settling unto a Teton steppe

Trees dryly twisted and dark as if charred by the unfettered sun in that empty expanse.
Dry grass and sage and crisply browning aspen.
All things etched and cracked,
the chilling wind has leached out their every verdancy.

Eroded ziggurats rise out of the prairie, stained with the blood of the gods of this scrubland.
A metallic groundstone scent.
Dry-rot town in arrested decay.
Heaps of railway slag rusting.
Brackish and muddy seeps cutting - greyly - through the sod and clay.

Salt blight.
Dimming light.
Horizon sky.
Plains open and unpillared far away north until bound by tundra and glacier and sea

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