from Mojave Ghost | Forrest Gander
Now there are creases that curvefrom the flanges of my noseto the scissure of my lips.And a deep cleft, like somethingleft by a hatchet,above the bridge of my nose. The brusque, impersonal obstinacy of aging. Weeding around the bushes in frontof our house, I breathe in the slightly licoricescent of rotting leaves. Though it’s twilight, down the street I hearworkers with their tree chipper coming nearer. In the glimmer and darkfallingafterglow, my small exuberanceshive in me like worms in a cadaver. I’ll just sleep for a whilewith these stones over my eyes. Don’t turn away or you’ll lose me. But there you go anyway, drifting outin the saline backwash of dream. Source link