Pony-trekking the valley of the shadow

Mohammed who galloped into heaven found no stable for his horse.

(So I whisper, I blaspheme.)

Firs climbing but they have no ambition, they know they’re great;

no joy in evergreen, only content.

So I crawl, complain. Men whose teeth

gnaw whole descents of ice;

he showed me a scene you could not doubt was a glacier once.

There is poverty in all gold, any god.

Like bare shoulders, an avalanche of light; this latest will destroy

any littleness of mind. You advance, jump your pony beyond this crevice.

Theft of grave markers spurs outrage and call for crackdown

Pseudomancy. False divination.

Topaz

It would rip off. All the bandages would be torn off.

This guy was enormous his chest enormous, flaring delts behind him,

you know how they have, his body like a reptile. Oh I was

listening at you, I could have said it first. Somehow evening becomes

sacred in its own light—forget god with his punishments/commandments,

and you beside me with eyes that read none of it. We watched them until

they were strong enough to fly away, so we thought, but I knew

nothing about any of it—feathers in the road. Bring me closer. Strange

how a voice is still such a touch, no other highway here. I hear them singing still,

and the farther we drive the fewer leaves the maple trees have left.

Barely getting by and facing a cold Maine winter

Teratoscopy. By monstrosities.

karen rigby