Before the sky is still again
birds will come and paint the moon
with hair. And more of this-
the bear, barrel full of noise,
will shake the tree
woven tight with bodies
wind dropped there.
The painted insects hiss and molt,
blood renewed, rise into vapors-
whining sex of one denomination,
blind religion of desire.
a surge of heat seekers
piles upon the amoral cloud.
Then nothing moves above
as bear looks up
without the slightest
break in step.
When I walk in November-tended fields,
my back to white shirts
bested by the blowdown-
snow hats, whitest upon tongues of wind-
in the company of uncomplaining
myriads of dead and sleeping
and soon to be born,
facing thunders cracking in the South,
I forget white papers
and men in dark suits
howling in the phosphorous of my sleep.
There are altars of brown grass
where no forgiving clergyman
puts God's dry body into my mouth.
My host is air. Its evanescent purity
a spider's silk that binds my wound together.
Everything here is patient ,
waiting for the stroke of heat.
There is music in the fields
that wait for men to walk
on their relentless bodies.
It is a skin that tolerates lateness,
Clay Burt's work has been featured in Riverrun and Evolution magazines. More
recently, Mark Olsen, former lead in the swiss mime troupe Mummenschanz,
performed Clay's storytelling piece "The Art of Pouring Soda" for national
audiences. More of his work can also be seen at Deadmule.com.