Richard Greenfield

Border Authority 1

 

                                                        All of the wrongs projected onto the landscape:

scape derives from this. It is easier than one imagines; this is the surprise. Another

century was more porous about crossings. Add a man, landed in delirium, in costume,

and get sick sublimity.

                                                             A concrete marker memorializes the border.

I was almost empirical beside it, a headstone of sorts. How tangible the exchange could

be. I operate within the rationale of peril. It's not as pitiable as it sounds when uttered

aloud. Yes, it is.

                                                                             This was the year of the census.

They estimated the number of the species but ignored the conspiracies it took to

survive where one should not. Breathing concurrently.

                                                                                           What happened next.

I strolled the line, considered in the binoculars of the border authority. I came to a black

lake, then the scorched grass of the playa. I carried gear. A camera to expose the

absconded light against the tracks of passed vermin who during the pivot star night

slipped desperately into their watching holes. In my open eye, I framed the dry domain.

Blight, and blight, and. Adjusted the amplitude. Stopped. Shook tiny sharp seeds out

of my socks before

                                                           I slid into the quality air of the drive away,

roughly fused into the excessive plain and the curve of the horizon, obsidian splay

slicing past. Giant yucca strained in the ejecta. I had no tactic.