Burrow Hunting

I hunted the burrows — periscope down
in the dirt, claws scrabbling
snatches of water, of laughter.
Turned down abandoned run,
past old nests — some memory?
You can’t know what’s there, she said,
not without equipment.
Don’t go alone.

This brackish shadow — where
the child, tugging — where the child, laying eggs —
where the child, who will bring you further,
never speaks.

I hunt for remarkable.
I hunt inside statements, I hunt
for live running meat, blood, cut cut black.
I banish
what will not startle.

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About David

Prone to musing and to being prone. Father to two, writer, engineer.
This entry was posted in poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Burrow Hunting

  1. nnicole says:

    I’m not sure about this. There is something I like about it, but I’m not sure what that is.

  2. gammaword says:

    That’s perfect! Your comment made my day. I was shooting for something exactly like that — something that calls, but can’t be grasped — subterranean. A little bit experimental for me. Thank you for reading and commenting.

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