Tuesday, March 11, 2008

Where The Woods Is Darkest

The film maker forgets his camera. He goes to the river instead, ice sliding by in blue sheets. On one is a man cooking over a pale fire. Hey, says the man, sliding by. By the time this melts, I'll be in warmer parts. The film maker sells his camera. He makes out for the desert, writing poems like sun under static.

No comments: