Saturday, May 27, 2017


Defend the lie and its bright construction,
re-enter the morass after you just have left.
Consider the angles of what you've missed : 
who could have said what, and why. I
strolled the land today for clues, but found
nothing. A bright infernal light, like fire
and storm. The little people, clambering
all over their boats. The guy with the
Grady White, and his gun-metal shorts.
I think there should be a limit to people
wearing bandannas. Over at the ice 
machine, two black guys were shredding
bait, endlessly talking to each other, both
enraptured in what the other said : that
certain sort of black-talk I could never
recreate. The heads of March, that old
boll-weevil talk of plantations and cotton
fields. These two guys, no matter how 
old, I think it was still in their blood. 
That genetic quality was high. 
Two separate sets of strolling lovers
walked by me. The first, a set of youth,
book-ended by desire, and holding each
other, while the second couple, in their
sixties and worn, held hands and walked
by in a still-natural bliss, for their age.
The only thing betraying them was their
clothing : too telling, too cheap, too much
out-of-date color. I said nothing. A smile.

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