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Marguerite Bouvard

Invading the Mountain in Combloux They felt nothing as they gouged into the pasture's soft body, tearing away layer after layer, dismantling the stillness. When they were finished they lit up their cigarettes and roared off in their trucks. Now, there will be no mornings, just the sharp glare of light against asphalt. There will be no hushed twittering of birds, no stamping of hooves or distant jangle of cow bells. They have assassinated the breath of freshness, the green flames washing the air, the odors of dung and flowers. There will be no slow awakening, drifting into consciousness with a pulsing chorus of secret voices, a tender vibrato of leaves and crickets. There will be no changing colors. One day will become just like another. We will move more quickly then, exiled to a country where there will be no refuge from ourselves.

Karen Klein Open to the Air larger version of image

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Issue #29, October, 2002 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.