Lament for the ThingJamison Crabtree
Our mistake was in the trusting; who knows if your hound licks your face for threat or taste. Thing, my dog has chewed bald the tip of his tail. Here, let’s start somewhere cold and end somewhere else, someplace colder. Blow off the noumenon and reckon on what location translates to: not much. We need to go; we haven’t. The landscapes treat us with suspicion, wild animals watch us slantwise. Dear Thing, I am thinking of going to the Antarctic too. Or New York. Love has driven me bruised and blue. I am inconsolable and dislocated; I spin spin spin as a result of some combination of whisky and chagrin. Thing, I’m saying I want to defibrillate the landscape and then fall in; for the ground to buck or shake and swallow me whole, except for my hand unfolding from the snow like a daffodil. This is how we say goodbye. And this is why you came here. To disappear.
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