hachete's Journal: Travel

running swift, swallow gladly
into each lanscape - woodland,
scrub, rock desert, so serif thrown off
the TEU left behind, swallowed
from bollard and twistlock swung drunkenly
into the DSSSL ringing standby for RTF or HTML
or the sitcom patio, next year's headlines,
some hombre slouching the wide open range.

I know you're moving west again,
the scouting parties are thumbing ALta Vista
for Victorian realtor, so best plates packed
stylesheets ready to translate. I shall
stumble on your tracks and curse and thankyou
equal measure. I sniff the wind and watch
birds wheel. I must refix the pen-nib, rebarb pointers.

I have spent happy times pitching tent,
making fire, dusting tracks, slowly stripping
syntactic sugar to be here, nothing but
bone semantics, some well-worn plates
leather bindings for the horses, tools
to fashion arms to pit at multi-engined giants.
They shall have no more, only twisted seeds.

There are occasions when I wish sans
not a chivying force, that weight would hold me
and the blue hills - but the flat horizon
is a long circuit I recall from blue -
a lariat flirting the run's irresistible arc.
At the water-hole, beneath the stars,
to the whisper of the dry wind, I wind
my birds up for all who will listen.
I wish them a flight of surprises.