nostalgia

to continue with the mixing of old and new stuff, this is a prose poem from some years back:

Atmosphere and Clackamas

JF


Unwieldy passage of the sun, white, through the keyhole of the old birch hill.
Blue rabbits in fields and thickets.
The cigarettes still smoulder in far-away rooms,
The Son of Man, cuffs in rock burrows, head in lines of blowing trees, lawnmowers, and fading thistles.

Amputated yukata of the early morning because
His face becomes a heavy black rhinoceros horn.
Hangover carves the inky bluffs,
Meet at the Seven Stars.

Blue mist charging and climbing,
Storm shaking stars and fir.
Alphorns sounding over lamaseries lorn,
Thibetan femurs ring beyond cromlech and rise.