Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Pure Michigan


A shoulder of pure clay cut with runnels
set to music, round nimble notes, each fat,

plucked chord sustained in eternal cascade
to the concertina of the spooling

Manistee above Red Bridge, blue blazes
worn smartly by these still, mute sentinels -  

their averted gaze twining into
graceful arches that usher us from one

moment to the next, fine capillary
weave stretched tight over ribs of stabbing light

that illuminate the slick kaolin
vein, a surgical tent to conceal the

fingers we plunge into the wound, smearing
our faces, the trees thrilling to our howls.

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