Poem 53

no matter where i go, nevada will always be home

 

All the history I know

is the way the dust blows

cutting at the face of the earth.

Conflict-construct deducts

from the sand-sculptors I find

to capture filthy the free—

Send off didactic calligraphy—

the lights seem to me brighter in my wisdom.

Boyhood and summer becomes them; I am

not a boy… I can’t appreciate this moment:

westward-boot leather-toe, like you can.

Wrinkled furrows of manifest, resent not

only the meager syllabic meanderings of verse

or worse, the sounds of unraveling

minds. mines. Mine. We don’t speak

of the syrup we pulled from the Rockies—

Instead revel in man’s triumphant sun-bulbs

blushing dry meadows with life. Nothing survives

but we—ay sayers—dehydrated sipping on silver.
–ECW
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