Late Holocene, soft estate—
bishop’s lace // Queen Anne’s lace // wild carrot—
moonlight eddying in the ditches, peace
in the presence of genius—
spruce owl // spectral owl // Strix nebulosi—
if she were just a bit bigger or myself
a bit smaller, she would carry
me home, but where—
this question is the sorrow of the colonizer
forever projected onto the colonized
and it is terrible—
this constant pleading where—
it is the moving of earth into berms
and levees // the hollowing out
of massifs // the draining of fens // the endless roads
that we confuse with answers—
so that’s where I go—
the way we confuse democracy with agreement
which is just another word
in the hands of the faithless—
take my hands
for example and witness
their faithlessness, their power
to pull a shroud over the world
and then—
palms up and out—
deny any power.
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