crayola at the old rub in a hot left hole

& then i walked right on in. it was a flurry of hand signals
poking through a séance in the cinder block & whatever else
she was she was tall, a rope ladder hanging from the picture
taking machine & a river bank hidden by the blinds. after i

gathered all of the light & spread it out on a plate it looked
like a celestial ham, then the whole world changed. carved
into a particle board tabletop were strings of images tracing
the lineage of the first bog found in a jar - it was crayola's

manner of moving through the room as if she were floating
on a tin saucer about six inches above the boards, no sound,
no spoor prints, & not a clue as to any way in. i looked up
bootleg in the dictionary sitting by the boneshaker & pulled

out eight pages straight from the caves, boiled in sawdust
& more roots than you could dig up in a day - the weather
was inconclusive. next fall when the wooden ferris wheel
makes for the fence post she'll lift a handle on the furnace

that heats the hillside & carry her trove of eye cups down
to the stream, down by where the sediment all sits in state,
old doc potter trimming his fingernails w/his potato peeler
as the sun sets inside of a willow that's borne its last line.

Jeffrey Little | Mudlark No. 15
Contents | crayola & the cooked