I get why the mountain stream had such appeal, and in the summer of 1896
must have felt breathless.
A run to the pines,
dripping icicles,
orgies and orgies of men.
And by poverty, driven, and long beards.
California.
Itinerants.
Setting up camp. The lust for riches, the cold beer. The warm worn nap of a shirt, its weft holding the warmth of the sun against clavicle. The sweat. The warp.
The hope.
Winter’s jagged moon, rough hanging.
Must have been brutal.
Oh desire, oh desperate need, oh the run from what could only be worse if kept
stagnant by inertia.
The call and howl of it. The suffer, like blue paw prints, pooled and froze, and licking the hard ice between the toes, the trees, crackling.
Breathing life into life into life.
I understand it. Hypnotic and bold. Dangerous.
Goes in the veins. Goes in the veins, and feel it move.
Winter is again traveling over the sky in grey
lest we follow sun’s trails, trace with our fingers its chariot across youth and its shanty of time.
Twill be all consuming
lest I lean into it, and feel it on my face, pale, like stretched muslin,
rough and soft, and peer through.
must have felt breathless.
A run to the pines,
dripping icicles,
orgies and orgies of men.
And by poverty, driven, and long beards.
California.
Itinerants.
Setting up camp. The lust for riches, the cold beer. The warm worn nap of a shirt, its weft holding the warmth of the sun against clavicle. The sweat. The warp.
The hope.
Winter’s jagged moon, rough hanging.
Must have been brutal.
Oh desire, oh desperate need, oh the run from what could only be worse if kept
stagnant by inertia.
The call and howl of it. The suffer, like blue paw prints, pooled and froze, and licking the hard ice between the toes, the trees, crackling.
Breathing life into life into life.
I understand it. Hypnotic and bold. Dangerous.
Goes in the veins. Goes in the veins, and feel it move.
Winter is again traveling over the sky in grey
lest we follow sun’s trails, trace with our fingers its chariot across youth and its shanty of time.
Twill be all consuming
lest I lean into it, and feel it on my face, pale, like stretched muslin,
rough and soft, and peer through.
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Sara Barnett is an American poet and writer whose work has appeared in the UK, Singapore, Canada, and several of her native United States. Also a professional actor, her full list of publications as well as several other creative adventures are available here: sarabarnett.net
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