Mudlark No. 47 (2012)


The red moon went tail and was all. A clutch of yard birds eyed up the giant pocket 
watch hanging from the hen house wall and consulted their arcane charts. Practically 
everything that was nothing else was like a buzzard knife and wailed. Almost 
immediately, boots, and that sound, the inarticulate condensation of a sizzling sixty 

cycle hum, walls-off and into skinned foment. Under a gone sky gone midnight
muted smoke jar we dig simply to save our skin, we dig and we’re cane buck why,
thirteen piles for thirteen dodges and a pale whisper off in our blood, in the outback, 
huffing the dozens down. There is a crazed old bear with a limewood leg skulking

through the forests in search of its lost limb, and for the woman, sitting by a window, 
spinning its fur into a bedspread and a new pair of feet. The water is different here.  
Above the tilia trees a pair of jackdaws hang frozen for a few seconds in the air 
before falling, like thoughts under a dark blue light, this night now and it’s nothing

is as it once was. We wait in a puddle of claws, forlorn and ill-advised, as a cumulus 
cloud wheezes away on a bed of throwing stones atop the hummock, sits wondering
about where it all went, how the sky opened to a sudden stop, that was not a stop,
but a pause, examined, with a subtle insistence, the atrophy and quotient of raw cost. 

Jeffrey Little | Crux the Alcove Geocentric
Contents | Mudlark No. 47 (2012)