( via / me )

There is a strange liminality present.

from "Phoenixville Farm":

"We’d sprawl in wild mustard, withers to withers,
companionable as old cows; breathe deep
skunk-cabbage reek from humming scum-slick ponds
where frogs with hurdlers’ thighs zapped gnats and belched.
Hawks tensed above us. We gobbled blackberries
off stabbing vines, smearing out faces purple,
sucked dandelion milk. We warmed wet hands
in the hunter’s belly-fur, gouged clean the hoof
that had shattered a rib; watched lambs yank udders;
tried to nurse fledglings, their bodies tufted lumps
of wrinkled dough, each eye a bugging bruise."

--Elise Partridge via

At Donner Pass.

"No harp rejoices · to herald the heroes,
no hand-fed hawk · swoops through the hall..."

--Sullivan & Murphy's Beowulf

"We shapeshifted between intricate musical passages, biting satire and unashamed slapstick humour..."