Photographs. Anecdotes. And observations on Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.

Monday, December 27, 2010


The fields lay in waiting
Fallow, like eggs to be cracked
With a tiny orange spade: a Philip's head beak.

Heat beats wheat stalks over a hill
And under a Roman buttressed bridge
Oscillating, waving, my back says goodbye
Soaked in the lavish heat of June.

I peel it off like cellophane and he says thank you
And wishes to be dipped in cool waters
Those cricks that accompany this road
Through The United States of Central Europe.

My back the Imperialist, so sopped, dressed
Like wheat bread whipped with perspiration.

It opens up to the air, to eat
Tepid and loud.

In route to Weimar, Germany. June 2000.

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