Rock — Thorpe Moeckel
Wind & current
go hand in hand this morning. I think –
for no reason – the warblers discuss conception
in the white spruce
heavy with last night’s rain & the stress
of so little soil. Rock
asserts itself here, in both senses –
noun & verb. A person gets dizzy
and scraped, twists
an ankle – it happens, the way slugs
appear, and snails
as if willed by the act of eyes, toes, nose
focusing there. Still, irony – grinless, slippery –
squats on the margin of shadow
and light. So water,
that pearly mussel, writes another line
in forgetting’s epic, that trilogy
called Possibilities
of Cornmeal.
What page are you on? What
does it taste like?