A Wind Near Dewd­ney, Bri­tish Columbia1

Prairie Fire - - DAR­IUS KIN­NEY -

The moun­tains were draped in a feldspar-ghost-lone­li­ness.

He re­mem­bers now, there was a wind and the snow

looked empty of fur­ni­ture, some­thing they used to call

not-right. There was a bro­ken-hun­gry voice in the barn,

there was a new world par­a­site, the echo of early on­set ma­te­ri­al­ism,

on its way to the city. To think he could have stopped it there, when it

was just a friend of a friend, harm­less re­ally. How it made him laugh

in those days. Is it too late? He’s heard the ru­mours, about the ghoul

of cold hand­shakes, the rot hid­ing in the par­ti­tion walls

of gov­ern­ment build­ings, about the mu­sic these days,

that was once the ghoul of Novem­ber 12th, the pris­oner

of vic­tory, the pris­oner of Novem­ber 12th. And he is left here

as the long face of the alien of noth­ing­ness, again, he’s walk­ing

from the woods to field. As if that was safe.

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