Blue Heron

Quarry

quarry 13 The ankle of the weather twists. What had seemed, ceased to seem. Then, away didn’t mean escape, it simply meant nature. A safe, small promontory into the water. Ankle, now weather, predator, wing. 14 This-that-we-know is a spoiled wing, bent feather. Whereas weather has a body all its own. Were I to go away, I would, by weight of saying, say less. Trauma drowned by its own skirts. 15 Trauma is quaint, a dream in one dialect, food in the next that weighs the air away. 16 Away was that, a wing in practical, quaint flight. The skirt on practicality now bears down on one as hunger. 17 The wing walks slowly, safe, not here. Smaller promontory into a body of water. 18 The skirt on the landform is practical, sensible, a form of water, once a form of gone but no longer such a garment. 19 Was walking a form of weather, a form of following, falling from the form as it twists? The weather was mispronounced, was an inversion of following, a promontory turned. It was not a twist.Trauma: neither safe nor unsafe.The burden 20 of the skirt dragging in water. Quarry susceptible to the cloak of its hunter. Dead mass of walking—no—not that, but dialect of walking as nature, always hunger, away. 21 What was once ease of swimming, flying. Adjust famine as meaning for its end.Weight durably, hungrily undresses.The landmass I was did not dissolve, just turned away from the wing’s broken load. 22 It was cold. Sodden, or water repellent. I was the ankle. Spiral. I was wing after all, mispromontory, predator. ...