Mudlark No. 47 (2012)

In Pinch Absolute, the Bigger Empty

Ask finally that the steam etches its tracks in crossing like a rundown ghost
gone wrong. No catalog, unless the terms dance, your host’s forgotten how.  
Circling red cranes, circling all around.  Where else could the bigger Empty 
hang shank-heavy beneath another muttered grey? A costlier conservation.  

Seeds grown more from roots grown green. Here, we are forever, just, here.
In the fulcrum of the buzzing. A Braille.  We take the rain from the outside, 
we take the rain on in, and a plugged cistern to parry the inevitable. Pissing 
in the wind now as a personal pastime. Across the divide sits a deliverance,

across the divide sits a can. In pinch absolute. The cure for a cloud is what,
exactly? Charting routes the boiling point — a higher principle forms — fluids
systematized by the field. On our knees coaxing out of the map of the mud 
the one ridge yet in pass. Rope vine fresco. What the hillside will not name.

Jeffrey Little | Black Rubber Birds Take Time
Contents | Mudlark No. 47 (2012)