If moonless night, if cuttlefish ink, if the deepest caves of my body, if shadow/
were a stone that burns, if I felt cannel from a drift on Windrock Mountain,/
carbon dust pricking the old man’s face blue,
![](https://i0.wp.com/cutleafjournal.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/01/VE7eeqwiqikyZVq95ZCR95.jpeg?resize=363%2C188&ssl=1)
If moonless night, if cuttlefish ink, if the deepest caves of my body, if shadow/
were a stone that burns, if I felt cannel from a drift on Windrock Mountain,/
carbon dust pricking the old man’s face blue,
Off in the clear-cuts/
the radio runs on. I hear this era is plagued/
by cacophonies of flight./
It’s organic he says fleeing into swamp culture/
leaving behind the years of espresso and Roquefort/