Wherewith thou shalt do signs – a poem by Tristan Cooley

Wherewith thou shalt do signs

The sage steppe yields up flickering the moment that it ashes
skyward, limbs smelted from a quail house into blinking
infrared, into data; translations of the cindered land spit forth
the zeros and ones for GPS; wardens give their go-
ahead for a scramble to the drop. Best practice
digs perimeters protracted from above
in grunt work ‘round the augur’s templum,
neon clad accounted for with every pickaxe
swing. Corralled by amber ganglia,
the hills the earth just grid to gash,
grown hotter since the bush burned
holy. There, where speech is sacrilege
and air pollutes the lungs, aphasia
one more grace descended
tongue to flaming tongue.

Tristan Cooley lives in Vermont and works on a fruit tree farm.

Leave a Comment

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s