Monday, September 28, 2009

Bush Craftsman

I began to fancy myself a bush craftsman.

For the moment he was mercifully unconscious.

Miraculously, as though divining her thoughts,

of confusing bigness with greatness.

The voice of the store grew faint

toward the distant whale-backed blur

and to the calf that stirred within her.

She had an almost irresistible desire

and the fringe of the bracken.

The fear of death had often come

to disturb his boyhood,

only to have it interrupted again,

set in the lobes of her ears,

forgetting to sign out and then signing out

but he's terribly clever at carpentry.

He won them for something or other.


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