More Compass Points 3

Compass

The sky steps back, a wall of mountain. Steep hills, imagine the climb or slide. White Bird Canyon, White Bird Creek trickles down to the Salmon. Gated gravel road cuts up the mountainside.

Compass

Two boys pat the clay they found under the wet sand into balls. Waterline written in sand, punctuated by small boulders. Drinks in hand, three women wade in up to their waists. Contrail disperses into a feathery cloud.

Compass

Sailboats get the preferred berths, pontoon boats clinging to docks close to the shore. Geese pattern sand with webbed feet. Two women question each other, probe, starting with the age of their children, then their husband’s jobs. These waves, pushed to shore by a speedboat, roll through smaller waves.

Compass

Right rear leg. Head folded, twisted back to the tail. Left front leg. Blood smeared middle of the road to the shoulder.

Compass

Magnetic attraction – it’s cold up there. After staying up all night, he’d walk from 14th and Michigan to where Wisconsin ended. Gone south, migration or metaphor awry? It’s too fluid, though the horizon appears rigid enough, for punctuation.

Compass

Sun kindles stone. F-sharp, lime green, then spotted blood on warped text. Picture frame, matte frame, photographer’s frame, all centering the unlit lighthouse. The couple hugs joyously, smiles broad, their thirty year age difference not their impediment.

Compass

Head of the table, no brains. Apples, plums, nectarines, but bananas top the bowl. This end, this pen. Crumbs, dust, hair.

Compass

They’re gone, but their activity’s fresh in memory: unicyclist attempting to jump his bike on a ledge as his friend captures it on camera. She read the book; he read her breasts. Rows of books wound tight, ready to spring open. Hollow, thudding, sounds of a cart pushing away from him.

Compass

Twice the tree trunk asks why. The divider keeps them working together. Door open, clock moving. They hold hands but the fierceness of his words threatens to break them apart.

Comments

[Leo Vandewoestijne]

A unicyclist that jumps his BI-ke? I would replace that for A unicyclist that jumps his (uni)cycle But well english is not native language.

[steve tills]

I know you've been writing these for awhile, Crag, but this is the first time (forgive me) that I've taken a good, relaxed, no hurry look at them. They're extraordinary. There is a "cleanness" and lightness/clarity to them, I think because they are so clearly unencumbered (by ________, well, I'm not going to mention the word/term -- I'll leave it quiet and not interfere with your producing many more of these). I should certainly like to see these in a big or little chapbook, maybe something theenk Books could produce.