by David Vikgren


Road-signs with bullet holes sway in the wind over the high billowing

grass, the sun wedged in a cocky pose where the world ends

Suomi picks up.  Fishes eyes stare through streams at

lumberyardindians hurling straight at the nameless heart:

sleeplessly vibrating  along miles of dirt tracks, roadbed,

escape route. Nights move along the echo of the Curlew over

a border water. Same language, same names recurring, still

changed to the resonance, strange like photographs of relatives.

Morning is read with ornithology [by wingspan and

accelerating polemics]: an increasingly apparent light manifests over

blurred drowsy faces. They fumble in hollow tree trunks

dark like caves with pale arms forth a cloud of insects as a

self defence to follow out of the verdure darkness. The image shatters

like dry fabric. In the light of the stampeding shadow it’s back home at once

and where the hell have you been.

© David Vikgren