May/June 2015 • Vol. XXXVII No. 3 Nature's Nature: A Gathering of PoetryMay 1, 2015 |

Fox-Breath (para-chantry)

It would be rank. It would be mute, & then immutable. You would not be able to hide inside it. No language but misprision, the concept of. The squalor of it, a poverty of music unstrung from the body of intention with a sailors knife, the blade of it a cheek against some other, crystal cheek. And you would long for it, to be delivered from it. It would not harm you— not on its own terms, for its own muscular sake. You would be as a spirit to it, an object of devotion. Feel it caress your flank, the thin tissues of flesh garlanding your throat. While you lie prone in a forest glade. Your condition is irrelevant the way the sky, suspended above the dew-struck canopy, is irrelevant: a pure song, a dropped stitch. The thread entering & then leaving your body, gold needle tightening in the dream's grasp. You would die for this, is what you are thinking— Quisling, Magdalene, lictor— wanting to draw that close to some living well.

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darkling copse

By G.C. Waldrep

It would be rank. It would be mute, & then immutable. You would not be able to hide inside it. No language but misprision, the concept of. The squalor of […]

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