misterpoop

Here in the late April something cold trout wind plays your bones in the post wet, in a dirge that dismantles the ligament. What is it that you were going to write? Northern Annie had turned her back? That we knew. But for this long? Leaves a tug in the Muscle that moors you in the third month of winter when the skies were gray. It seems that I am to relive this day, that I am condemned to retrieve for ever this receding day for the Rest, or at least until skein ravel rots seep up through the rhizomes and piping of plant in organic mulch smell of long ago summers on the farm in Annapolis Valley, Nova Scotia, or Bingo in Halifax, or clam digging in the bay with Lily in August, (and I should be so lucky for the memory crumb) or again, Julia who died, (at least in the glut of midsummer away from Northern Annies Back.) on the side of Willow road with a tree branch running through her stomach and the radiator hissing; the bent steering column crushing the chest of Jamie who was never to sing again. She died slowly to the birds chirping in the Fir and staring at Jamies blank face. No car was heard that day coming down Devils Bend. Not until the Martin family came down for evening mass and little Christian saw the wreck. And while Captain red began to eat the upholstery a soft breeze played through the leaves. An evening lush. Some times I can hear Lily calling Julias name. She says it softly as if hoping not wake the sleeping. Julia?, she says, Julia? But Julia does not answer anymore, but in April and only when the trout begin to hum.

On the Horizon there was no ship to be seen of any kind, by any of the prisoners even after george had turned into an angel and Samuel opened to the Gods. By that time I was weeping into my grass coffin. The smell of cold dry grass. And of course the plum sky which Ive already mentioned. There were crystals of Frost beginning to form on the skein. Other than the lap of water there was a silence by the name of Hansen that descended upon the beach in wads of cotton turning the air into dense inert clay. The rest of the prisoners remained standing in line with their heads bowed. They looked like sleeping penguins or a line of whale hooks in the night. The Hansen was a gleaner and sifted through pockets for the original food. Mostly Quinoa and stories. I had no pockets and therefor nothing to give. Nonetheless he remained till morning and left with the awakening of the Quails.