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.