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In This Place
In This Place The spirits are not benign up on Mt. Erskine chittering at fog-flyers up on Mt. Maxwell with cougar who spies out the lambs of Musgrave. Up on Mt. Bruce mean spirits scrabble radio waves for living and dead. They doze on Mt. Tuam. They never sleep. At full moon they come down on the rocks of the sea’s shore deliver such messages: are not gone. We quake. We draw curtains against the word’s blaze. She goes out on the water hearing. Is taken or given by tides. I go as far as I can collaborating in the fame. Her scheme of last minutes her strategies are little songs for great earth (to which I listen carefully in this place). ‘I took the path. I crossed the signs. I crossed the path. I took the signs.’ Dark sounds. Dark sounds.
In This Place The spirits are not friendly on Mt. Erskine, making noise at fog-flyers on Mt. Maxwell, where a cougar watches the lambs of Musgrave. On Mt. Bruce, angry spirits scratch at radio waves for the living and the dead. They rest on Mt. Tuam. They never truly rest. During the full moon they come down to the sea's rocky shore to deliver messages: they are not gone. We tremble. We close the curtains against the brightness of the words. She goes out on the water, listening. She is taken or given by the tides. I go as far as I can, sharing in the fame. Her plans for the last moments her strategies are small songs for the vast earth (to which I listen closely in this place). 'I took the path. I crossed the signs. I crossed the path. I took the signs.' Dark sounds. Dark sounds.