To wake inside of the embrace of an exquisite briquette of shredded wheat and take a glance in the rear view mirror. There are extinctions, and there are extinctions, it’s all in the filter, and the phosphate, in whether or not you mix or stir. At times like this you’d expect rocks to start falling from the sky, or frogs, or, clumsy pots full of rocks and frogs. The priorities of indifference, of a fallout shelter with all the wrong cans and odd leavings only a hook dog could understand. What no one ever dared to talk about were the witchings. Daylight out of the dark time. A cliff whelp half past dancing in the cataracts of second sight. The hunger of what will not return. In the corn tent we make our move. First, the accordion. Second, the blight. We’d never witnessed such a thunder of slough. It was a project doomed to failure from the start, as they all are, but this one knew it, and it made it dangerous, the last auk out conjugating the fallows for more.
Jeffrey Little | If Book in Sun and All Then Some Contents | Mudlark No. 47 (2012)