Kashmir Overload Truckdaddy
The damn'd scarlet midnight
crept corpse-reeking o'er the field
in her clean grey gloves, stroking
the scaly back of a small pig
into a soft pyramid of detritus
and left behind the first rumors of flood.
I was there, riding in metal
on the back of a great bent beast. I ate raw dirt
and drew lines with a stick. When the emissaries of water came,
small-as-ants and as-persistent, I made fast with dropped anchor
to the heart of the obsidian sea.
Sunken in the desert. I rode in a wide circle.
Riddles of clarity, luminescent and green through the channels of water.
Her vulpine gaze fastened on the hasp of the door.
Turnings in through turnings, in and inner,
freedom for incidental things. The lever lifts
of its own accord. We are flying.
It wasn't bitterness, not that,
and not bad luck, only a bad turn, things happening
again. You plant winter by your front door.
The leaves cover ghosts. You turn over at night
into a glassy green mattress, making vases of your body.
You are contained like a spray of narcissus.