Why wait? This is the second sequence of the group:


A wild west so fictitious
only cowboys could live there.
I leave my cave and take some clothes to the water.
A fine dust in the water
stains them yellow. Someone arrives
and talks of a mythical beast,
recently slaughtered, gargantuan, bearded head
on the prairies of a land that
is also mythical. Myth hurts.

Myth hurts. I am being used
to describe an attitude towards value.

The power of magic is denied
when it works. I too. I too
am afraid of power. As though
the boats would not have slowed down
to retrieve him whole. Only a little
time for that magic to work. A fine dust
in the folds of cloth,
in the knots and tangles of the wool.

The natives work themselves
into the imagination, like dust
that rubs off the nap
of a cloth, that penetrates
the fibres. Just as the cloth
falls apart the dust
stiffens into the rigid
form of the robe. The native
walks out of the cave and
towards the river
and everyone is scared.

This entry was posted in golden fleece, poem, value. Bookmark the permalink.

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