"He got up and walked out to the road. The black shape of it
running from dark to dark. Then a disant low rumble. Not
thunder. You could feel it under your feet. A sound without
cognate and so without description. Something imponderable
shifting out there in the dark. The earth itself contracting
with the cold. It did not come again. What time of year? What
age the child? He walked out into the road and stood. The
silence. The salitter drying from the earth. The mudstained
shapes of flooded cities burned to the waterline. At a
crossroads a ground set with dolmen stones where the spoken
bones of oracles lay moldering. No sound but the wind. What
will you say? A living man spoke these lines? He sharpened a
quill with his small pen knife to scribe these things in sloe
or lampblack? At some reckonable and entabled moment? He is
coming to steal my eyes. To seal my mouth with dirt."
miker
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This archive was generated by hypermail 2b29 : 18 Nov 2006 EST