grey_poem
befuddled, slightly under events
the automated field operator balked.
“the kind of love that marks the recording illegible is not worth recording”
he often said as he moved diligently around the perimeter.
the first night they nested,
two twigs and fire broke in the bracken.
on second transmission,
timed out, he gleaned the gleaming arm of his recorder.
“unwork the undoable and look sideways at 8 degrees”,
mumbling under his breath he trudged along the path.
the third leaves little to say,
like when a door opens in front of a speeding bicyclist.
on damp pavement, open ended Heimlich and other failed resuscitation.
and now, think of the garden outside Lorena Bobbitts’ residence,
an even slice at the top of the protrusion,
an over-saturated flytrap,
a dented metal toy truck, yellow and corroded.
–> intern