II
Lantern flicker festered around dark torsions,
a peppered morse half dispatched, lost near
the ash and moss. A farmhouse at the ready
like a collie in fog, yet the fence bent
by the plod of hooves wanting
to know something other.
The lap of dark matter, particles sunk deep
to a damp graveness only an oarsman would
know. His keel curls a low throat gauzy yawn
waiving onto the strand. To follow out, to want
to wade the Atlantic— forced to stay
behind the grain.
I
Twill texture, electric heat,
ash, wheat—fuel for our bletting.
A damp bell rattle, black cattle
nestle in the threads of a morning.
We tread lightly.
Shovels glint with fresh grit,
cattle aware of us quelling the grain,
and the slow churn of change.
Interlude
In the pine behind
you grows a grove
of endurance noticed
while sucking honey
from your lobes.
I am but a tendril in
a slow reach to the core
of your bones. Wind about
me, reach for mine.
Cycle
Tucked tight, throttling in
the thin motion of speed,
the late corn clatters
in the field, wind catching
on the pedals. Coursing
distinctly, breathing
machinery operating in
the cavity of endurance.
In this quiet science,
my hide sharpens a blade,
which quivers and slits
attachment away – I hide
in the cycle.
Blue Ridge
The blue ridge cradles
the left-behinds.
Black barns.
Dead hens.
Paper canoes.
Go slow, love.
Notice what we don’t want.
Passing as the ridge fades into the sound.
The dogwoods nod as we nest
into the Currituck coast to molt,
to change.