Friday, March 9, 2012

Brine


1.
we are Myriad;
old lives as cobblestones;
(bared-teeth), sunk
in Earth.

Our memories;
(scaffold-shapes,
mica-schist):
loom over us,
from Four Sides of Consciousness:

as the embedded thing in mud (green circle),
as the adobe bricks steaming in the rain (brown dust),
as the smoke from the distant storm (red circle),
as the sour yellow smell of wet chamisa rising from the plain (spinning circle).

2.
when I lived in New Mexico, the
adobe houses would cluster together wetly in storms.

the lashes of rain would darken even the red dust,
under the trucks, and
rusted car shells.

3.
Here, powdered-iron and
Creosote
hang heavy in the air,

and like (metallic) wet
steel wool,
Coagulate,
(inside particles of storm wind,
nestled in their own-made nest).

4.
The wet brine of a west Texas afternoon,
Creeps
through my backyard window,

Reading furtively,
unbeknownst (to me),
the chicken stock and lentils
hum quietly on the darkening stove.

ELG
2010

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