Poetry

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/