hatchet mountains
cold dust, the lick of the highway,
and we journeymen are superheated,
bus-trip to the end of summer.
falling over and over into what is known, familiar forestry
and what we attempt to know, phalanges grasping rapidly,
mouths forming ugly ape words, yammering.
here, where owls tense their feet around
cable in the yard, their knowing
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