pearlingrain's profile

In northern Maine there is an island That is more mosquito than man. At one of the crags, The water sprays up As if the entire coastline was A giant whale moving underneath, Surfacing for air and to observe Its course; to orient itself with respect to the rock outcroppings. Behind this crag lies a house, just At the brink of slipping off Into the mouth of the whale. There is a light. I dig a hole in the sand Hoping for China, but the whale Swims underneath, filling the Bottom with a spit of b...

The train jitters along. I try to keep everything to myself, But there are too many people, So I can’t do any sort of reading. I begin to think it’s All the same story anyway. The noise is an aching teapot In a room filled with other teapots. The buildings are staircases and legos on top of bone. On the street, woman upon woman Carries umbrella upon umbrella. Shields against seeing the dark Corners of themselves. The horse And carriage horses wear blinders So they do not Spook from all they'd...

There are little glowing marbles. Orbs of entertainment that before I would have called ‘simple,’ ‘what you do when there is nothing to do.’ A rope swing. A game of solitaire. Birds. But, There is always something to do. The leisure entrepreneurs Have no place in country-town. In February, it is cooking down The sap, It is mending fences. It is adding a weather vane. Planting the crops of early Spring Or replacing a storm drain. And it is tiring, maintaining weeds. Toil enough and sitting for...

I. When your great-great uncle looked away to glimpse at a new automobile trundling along, he was mauled by a bull. They moved on. To dairy cows (more docile) To chicken. -and delivery. Cartons full, bottle-brimmed. And when chickenshit became gold Even more expensive than crude oil Off to the grocers the chickens were sold. (save 3 & a cock which were salvaged by an aunt) She keeps them. Locked up in a wire shack. The hogs were the last to go. Woodshavings Lint-covered candied mints Saw dust...

A place where there’s Gnarl. Tree trunks twining Up to the bluest sky, and voices that sound Like leaves, like souls of empty bodies. Someone mentions fairies. How they could exist. How They would burrow into the topography of the tree. It’s all too ethereal, and Reminds me of my youth, Which holds too much Weight these days, as if I am made up of only What has come before. As if the tree was always a tree, And before a tree, a tree. As if a spoon was always a spoon, Hands cupped together, a ...