Farmer's Tan
I've been here before -- loping, potsherds, a pilgrimage of time,
I have a mosquito's puncture, regarding a waterfall in Oregon, eyelash thinking of fallen companions -- The Indian guy and his wife, the porchlight blaring on a vacancy of oracular lichen. Ghost town, timbers, portals to interstices Hyperborean, the Pleiades rising up the sleepy horizon. Wo kommst du,
lungs seething, out of shape potentia flaming from ferns millions of years back, miners strolled the earth,
What is the sound of the river?
Like a spigot mortar a clay ornamental pot outside my window lobs roman candles, the Paiute still planted there at his homestead, sun and snow on remotest summits, it's easier going up than coming down.
JF
June 17 2011
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