born to be forgotten. Lost
with 500-acre armies
deep into an autumn night.
Buried twice,
in soil and time,
like all great men. Haunted
by the desperate murmurs
of my obituary tumbling
across barren fields.
Pure silence is an abandoned theater, echoing with the screams of a grindhouse film nobody remembers.
After Larry Levis’s “Airplanes” I grab a torch and go burn hay bales to a pile, and stare at the glowing remains until cloves grow from...
Across the drought-dried field, vultures perched on hay bales, wings twitching with anticipation as a road-trapped body took its last...