Stringer’s Ridge Pastoral 3, February 2016


My steps etch this path
as if every mark made is
of a new language

untranslated. Brick
from a generation or
three back says more than

its builders ever
intended us to hear it
say. But a scribbled

ghost, imagined in
sliced-up-dreams of the last decade
begs for answers, too.

The incline gives way
only to mystery, deep
in these woods. Marked off,

IMG_2055.JPGrhythmed and holy–
you learn the grammar, forget
to ask about the

story. For what can
records say that bricks cannot,
shelves tossed, miles below?


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