Visit to the Grand Canyon
Sitting together on the bumper at the edge of the Grand
Canyon I see sonnet vultures circling the North Rim and I’m suddenly hungry for
a sonnet, but the cover is more than I want to pay.
It’s an odd feeling, like being in a bar and realizing what you
want, more than anything,
is Eucharist
Knowing you are no stranger to hunger, I say, “Does it seem
odd to you that one who lectures others for a living would use the term “drill
down” as a metaphor for clarification?”
“Drilling is what two sweaty men with a boom truck do in the middle
of a field – creating a navel through which waters return to the sky. “
“Drilling is two mosquitoes inserting a steel proboscis 308
feet into the earth’s epidermis to a self-betraying vein that draws down a
witches willow wand.”
“Drilling is what two reprobates do, sitting silent on the
bumper of a truck as the sun sets, inserting memory needles into pains that go
unnamed, immeasurable and unredeemed.”
“No,” you say,” those who steal words to describe a stolen
life are always dressing themselves up like that in artifacts stolen from the
lives of others. It is the main reason
they don’t write sonnets.”
LFM
May, 9, 2014 (formatting altered by Blogger. Should be couplets.)