Peter CulleyThe Book of Hughfalls open upon a bituminous and flaky page of coal. In turning from it lit upon a pink and stripey rock found early in the walk a rejected tumbled pebble that had through the air appeared polished. Therefore in a premature spring--the christmas greens still up--the toads took to the roads, driven by unseasonal lust through the marsh gas and into our path. The dim stir of chemical atoms toward an axis of crystal form: thus bear spoor, formerly loose and fruity becomes parchment, chimneysmoke appears to hover, the distant shunting gravel is through the drizzle oddly amplified. Likewise the trance-like life of plants: as for the fern summer so, roughly winter-- a fructose haze foreboding not ever a tender reading that does not waver. Beside us on the lawn a brown barette flecked with gold, the photo of a horse, in my hand a pebble of no note, that had gleamed in the mind only, as upon the tracks a red cent flattened oval spun against the cutbank and away. The ragged wall of social habit connecting boulders, half- obliterated, etched over aggregate a glyph-like trace of hooves out of the quarry the gravel truck's girlish sway upon the little curve. From spray to spray flitting light the speckled finch's yellow note above the tufted and ossianic ridge sepia splash along a margin interior foxed, off white endpaper snow falling closing, scything crow tinges blue the green day's republican starlings, sneering ducks, fatuous shitting geese... Personality an unseasonal squall, a "gesture" (as in painting ca. 198-)-- a runny mustard splat, a pig's black tail, a little silver hurricane, an omni-browed Kali-- though sleeve notes tell a different story: puppyish prospects considered beneath sugary eastern elms, exalted sleep, smeared mountains beyond the desk, foreground's heap of sulphur bestrides the bridge's sexy parabola, grainy against an edge that is no edge at all. Would seek therefore a motive for its use, would attempt unbidden a tunnel through the thick mantle between us, the branch's shadow on the shade moves and is a bird or isn't--too big for a leaf certainly, though similarly launched; inattention fluid also, subject to accumulation, massed hesitations, blanks aphasic interludes. Thus brick by brick the pyramid of stupidity is erected, so mortarless suburban walls, the blue screen of a false spring. Beaten back incrementally the peeping snowdrops re-gather, rime's erect buzz cut atop a minor green shelf of shale, omitted rain yet fills the valley's moist hollows, unseen ripples athwart the spongy ground. Copyright © 1995 Peter Culley |
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