Wednesday, April 8, 2009

In Entropy [April 7th | 91/365]

In youth the road away from my home city went past an immense name made by ripping moss out from a side of a mountain.

It took sixty years to disappear.

The basque sheepherders who moved to Northern Nevada learned quickly that a shallow cut in the white bark of Aspen trees heals black.

Their words rot with the tree.

If I tried to shape earth to have the plants sprout into the letters of your name I worry that it would grow as if translated by a bad dictionary.

My name instead of yours.

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