Sunday, August 4, 2013

Mary Celeste

Between my tent and the campground's bathroom
under the stand of pine trees, there is a step in darkness,
when I move no farther from one
or closer to the other,
and everything that used to be miraculous
is still miraculous.
The ground is as soft as an unthreatenable thing,
trading pitch and dust for footsteps.

In the abrupt light of the bathroom, graffiti
is the log of a deserted space ship,
tethered by power lines to the human world.
The daddy longlegs jostle and are still near the light;
the spiders fight to build webs near the light;
the moths and flies crowd the light.

The way I have always moved is: place, place.
This is different.

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