out there

while I pray for the fish I'm about to kill clumsy I pound it with a rock and return to the hut chop wood for the fire wrap the fish in newspaper soak it in the lake and throw it on the coals listening to sheep choirs raise the hill accompanied by cricket strings so the farmers say you can read the temperature by the number of plucks per minute and gauge humidity when hawks shear the fog it all is making my sad heart thump and trumpet to get out of the circuit board I'm living in further from palm pilots farther away from humanity yet closer to being human letting voices from the undertow bleat from my hands


Paul Lowe