cold mountain (14)

he mastered the sword and brush …
what’s left isn’t worth saying

Life in a border state. First the river rose up and washed away the streets and yards. Then the wind rose up and took down all the walls to the foundations. I found three pencils and a butter knife in the basement. That was before the snows settled five feet high and banked in drifts between the sunken walls. When the thaw came the pencils were nothing but lead cores and pink gum bb’s, and the butter knife had buried itself somewhere in the mud. A man with a briefcase came through the other day asking what this place was. I said nothing, since words are like sieves and all my speech was running torrents. I pointed west to where the sun sets on a horizon as thin and sharp as a sheet of paper, pressed against the earth.



One comment on “cold mountain (14)

  1. […] the sill, language dissolving as soon as spoken. Even the […]

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