& meets mine in the
middle of
some desert plain I
have not yet visited.
I find myself swaying
to the rhythms
it makes, & hear the
foot-tapping sound of my
left boot on
this left-behind land.
War drums, perhaps. An
approximation. Dry lightning, thunder,
scaring only those who've grown with
a reason to fear it.
The words of it are
unguarded, not enclosed,
resolutely un-fenced in.
Free-range speech.
Vicious,
but tender too,
sweetly attentive in
the way it seeks to pick out
the things people do and do
not want to say.
Mine shakes a bit,
at first, nervous
at the master's
knowledge of his art,
distant drumming of
my boot still humming
its strange susurration
out through the red red dust.
I am learning. I am beyond beginning but
not my own master yet.
Not unlocked enough inside
to have a soul worth
captaining.
McCarthy dialogue still dances
& I, learning, try and keep
the beat.
No comments:
Post a Comment