Look over your shoulder for the hustle of words.

Monday, June 18, 2007


Climb upon the hill and open your empty eye.
There is nothing there to fall on, there is nothing there
that can stand your impact; that can stand to be a net.

The landscape is all sweat and dirt and animals with
mouths to rip your limbs free, if pressed close.
Hear, hear the whisper of their child voices.

You don't regard them soon enough, the crush
cups you forward, moves your legs, flies you over and then
you see: porcelain visages, blood behind the masks.

See? You thought too late. So we begin again. I wipe your hair
clean of gore and you, you roll up the hill once more.
The lemon sun burns on your neck. Cycle, cycle through this.

You behind your heavy stone, clambering up the hill:
how many times must we do this?

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