Full moon November, 25 26 27
1137pm
4 uuu,
It is not Halloween but the combines are walking on water to eat the last of the corn. Tomorrow at last they say it will snow. I pretend again I am here. The trees are more beautiful today than in my November memory, long and dark and blank. Still.
Someone has killed a deer, an old man. (The deer.,) At least eight points antlerbone. The hunter is so young that he will drag it out of the woods himself, no four-wheeler, and hang it from a tree from the tendons of its hind legs, where it will be skinned. Place a tarpaulin on the ground to collect the organs. With a sharp knife make short, precise cuts. Be careful not to let the hair inside. Cut out the gunshot and hoist it onto the top of a station wagon, or the back of a pick-up. Bloody ropes, intestines. The butcher will process it into freezer steaks. Slug heavy in your hand
Let me read this poem to you as we sit by the flood. Or maybe I’ll read you the first two stanzas here, now :::
There is still clay in the soil,., Open mouths from when they curled it out of the earth, taken to the brickyards. Some times mistaken for pits made by glaciers, where ice has gone to die. At the murder trial they said they threw bad things into one of those graves. The day they showed the pictures I was sick.
If it was bow season maybe we’d have to go out with flashlights, looking. The killing of the deer has made the others afraid. The men who want to do the killing — they are mostly men, though I am sure not all — must go deeper into the woods, sit still for longer. A dear one who lives in the south told me once that to go hunting is to lie down for hours covered in leaves. So that your smell is folded into the forest, egg whites into sponge.
Travel to the cit;y of the dead
tidal wave cresting to balcony collecting
eucalyptus tax rubies in pocket
whale mouth biting
A hydraulic line has been severed. Fetch the wrench
***
And as we head east, this, written in the sky :
Next time will be happier, I promise
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