Another Day, Another Dolor

Thursday, August 18, 2005



The nude in the forest, worst
of breed, eyes me, like a fly,

in facets. The bear, eating cold
clammy fish, sniffs

us -- or the camp provisions. We hear
the fish, his water run away, cry

with ears of heron, coughing notes by

rote, a drill. Then the nude’s tongue --
hot, moist and curled -- snakes out all our curses.

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