Sunday, September 05, 2004

spiked thoughts

The animal's not found
in these parts nor anywhere
nearby. Yet I'm sitting
under the house thinking
about porcupines. Their
quills particularly.
How they're straight or
only slightly curved,
unlike the smoke from my
cigarette which is going
in all directions. There
is a frog clinging to
the security screen
that guards the laundry
window, drawn to the moths
that are drawn to the light
I have left on in order
to give me some idea
of where to stumble. A
batrachian bonus. From here
it shows as silhouette; from
inside it is an anatomical
exhibit. The smoke drifts
past it, pools beneath
the floor of the deck
above me, then seeps up through
the floorboards. I wonder how
to vent it elsewhere, consider
yurt designs at first. But the
prospect of spending nights
in the Gobi drives me eastwards
across the Pacific to the Nine
Nations. Equally romantic / much
more appealing & there's some
tenuous link with arrows that
lets in porcupine quills to prick
the mind. That's what sitting
beneath the house can do
when there's not enough light
to contemplate your navel. Allows
your thoughts to drift & pool
& seep into unexpected places.
I put out the cigarette, leave
the laundry light on. The frog
thanks me. We have an
understanding. It stays focused
which lets my mind jump around.
Not too far & closer to home.
I am thinking about echidnas.

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