A dry shriek scattering the sand as the sand as pitted is as this sand is as its made you. This is the simplest, the slow draw down. If there were any egg-birds they long turned tail, laughing, in split pidgin, leaving the winds for those laggards on back at the bluff. It’s dumb-ass versus dumb-ass and a roll of the bones, but the switchgrass won’t waste its time, clutching at fat-squat and shimming for a storm it’s got nothing, nothing except panic panic, a sideshow hip to stood hunkered by before the broken festival of the sigh. Sound comes rip to blown by rig of the three reed’s incessance and tossed suck of walls. We wear this dessication well, thinning godly, of sienna and the cross-eyed curve. You cannot pre-date this, the whistling grubbing on up inside of your ears and settling down like a hawked dog’s cry. Off in an nether hill cave the echo itself completes, a tossing of dust stitched to the shock of the sun. What you imagine is as calculated as a shroud. Full of whet stones and incantations, an idiot-glyph, read, once, then forgotten back by.
Jeffrey Little | Karoline Wolf-Desert Sunset Contents | Mudlark No. 47 (2012)