South in Hundreds

                 Missing one hundred.

for many leagues, i slept under

surface. couldn’t learn enough

to stay, couldn’t hurt along

midriff, scrum and scrub. see myself

rushing into tomorrow’s wet

world. thin trees almost ferns with quiet mouth

desire. took to cold high plain, only wind and a murdered boy.

started running at the first sign

of breath but there’s only

three yesterday heads speak in these fields.

so much to circle. always asking

to let me repair small chord between us.

you started lagging each step, dragging

the water, stirring up dirt. he still

refuses all nourishment, says everything bad.

an odd man rushes past, asking if

near swamp, still looking for signs

we’ve seen two girls on horseback.

not tired, he says, refusing to go to sleep.

we’ve seen very little all day, close to the whistling ground.

in this family, we don’t count sheep because we eat them.

we shake our heads no

under black light, we’re all deep stream, counting down cows.

as the man points to the tracks, they couldn’t have gone far.

         Still fresh, still fresh.