(for William Gay)
Days lit flat and splayed, as if to understand a life is to log its contents. Take down work. Dissect the nights you don’t sleep. Meanwhile, life hangs with death in the woods. Tin cups of waiting. Long hours of drink. But go ahead. Open it all up. Take minutes and leave them on desks come morning. Walk in the sun and sleep in the bed. Forget there are lines no one can map. The Great Divide. That mile marker where cities halt their sprawl. Springs that run dry at the hem of the Harrikin.
Michael K. Gause was born in Tennessee and raised on forest solitude and the written word. Later there were explosions. Now, after 21 years in Minnesota, he's happy to say he's never felt more southern. His sporadic blog is http://thedayonfire.blogspot.com.
