Communal
Hubris
Five crows in the grassplot where a factory once loomed
The promised age was upon us. Satan, famous for dandruff, snowed into the hive:
extol their latest meal, crying above my headphones. We’re here in this place together and then swiftly in the past though also not too far ahead— a realization deep in the texture of every over-employed metaphor, the failings beginning to show as the present moment progresses. The clouds rust shut overhead, the music’s shivering pulse frays on their din, their dusk ruckus. I should have just kept walking. The beauty was unapproachable.
breeze weaving in, out of ovens, mail slots, the view vivid with gravel and soot, frost, bird chatter and fog— vivid with resurrections, even the headless and all the lost virgins, the wrinkles, the scars. Age of elasticity, of etcetera, of mascara, of salvation unmasked at last as oppression, of arrogance renewed an act at a time, like an exhale of altitude: floods from very deep, lakes unfolding clear, old rivers being born, pieces of the whole, tree upon tree, world after world. Found his machinery by the river— knew it all to be a ruse.
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BELMONT STORY REVIEW / SPRING 2016
SPRING 2016 / BELMONT STORY REVIEW
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