augury doggerel

Thursday, October 17, 2002


In August, I would purposefully take my tin cup and book and pencil out to the pasture hatless under nothing but air and the ticking sun and burn. I crawled on my knees in grass and unskinned. I hunted crickets and grasshoppers with my ears and spiders with my spine, and felt a real unshakeable damp chill when spider ate grasshopper. Birds talked to themselves as I talked to myself in a hollow of a pasture in August. I returned burned devil red for each grasshopper I watched eaten.

Now, not two months later, the world is wet and gray, the sun is gone, the stars are gone, the spiders and grasshoppers are gone, the birds are gone. We live within the slightest tilt of a planet.


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