O

O

O

What was it for the longest time but lore, lure;
 
A heard-tell growing gold in the mind.
 
Word said (and word’d spread) it was well on back
 
Through the underwood by Bowen’s Canal.
 
Past convoluted trees there’s claydirt, a clear patch.
 
A (rife) clearing.
 
Ripe croodle-field.
 
Ring.
 
 
        •   
 
 
Bear off
 
Right where understory comes to grief entire—
 
Grubble this way head-down
 
Belly-down claw through clingburrs as a creature.
 
Cross (fret-morass and canebrake) and pass.
 
 
        •
 
 
Encompassed here
 
Where springs not fail
 
Canes not break nor welt on backs of leg
 
Green cresses plait
 
No plaque of heated iron scathes
 
(Nor noose, nor knives)
 
Articulated scapes arise
 
 
        •
 
 
Always the story-man lights lard-lamps in a circle and tells.
 
A boy scrapes and ever-graves for likeness with a stick.
 
Two girls croodle corn-songs cane-songs back and forth unbroken.
  
Once-bent bodies leap (in chorus) leg and whirl.