Dawn Pendergast's Blog

The quiet is a blind house.

Let, let.  it.

Tennis piss

whitefire.

Wait.

For.

 

 

A carpid, A yellow rone

at singing convincingly

to the blond bomb day,

milestoned & hot.

 

 

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waves and tiny pressures.

Tumbleforth jumblefish day

daily Hey’s “you there”

as we canter, can’t hear

any wildernesses

for all this
Hinterland.

 

 

 

re: Callingforth day

Grow long.

Sun coming hairy and sweeps

needlessly sweeps

the horses

break, they reek, they go

long across pastures, blond and hard.

Or so it seems.

Or so we say. Hasten.

It’s about time

the babies came in

 

 

 

Hinterland, hard heart.

Shhh.

 

The tines of quietest trees

shrink and itch.

The dry is. Why

so quiet

is very hard to say.

The cows have wet luminous mouths.

They go down.

They in one

huffing.

 

These lightest times, light my lifey.

Blows down the tree one.

Goes it down the length of.

The dental trees.

The mechanic.

The hard as rocks

imagination of trees,

neither here nor

anywhere.

 

 

Each sweater is a picture

of knots, a scene

stopped, a perfect significance

Mulling the woof.

Pulling the caftans.

Shruggling

to see if

& how.

 

Tagged as: NP

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