Was a surprise.
The locusts bloomed on the new year walk. The arroyo agents crafted small bitter trees
in the scarified earth, noxious plants among the strew, granite, gypsum, alluvium,
badland in the rain shadow, and droughtful of all gist. Try again:
a bird played
still in the dead bush growing from the albic earth, I didn't know the name of the bird
then: a husband bird— its singing stake in the wind a tiny, vitriolic code.
Yet dearth forces profits into intervals,
captures, contracts to foreclose upon, even in this chaste exogamy with desert:
in the steps ahead, in these several economies, I could mortgage the month? If I could
make my lurching decision? To amend my prim upheaval. To find my last filagree, my
modern idyll. What if I excised the debt and the endless payments to that abstraction
(the balance) that every year so terribly clarifies?
the pastoral is full of many evictees, each the absolute implicate of me, greed is
evidenced everywhere, even in the gulf between sage and ironwood.
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