by Greg Huteson
On the slate gray plain,
paused when jabbed by rain
bloodying as darts,
I rub pricked parts
hard with soggy hands,
mull intention and
providence that sent
me from shabby rent
propped along the sea.
Raw abrasions mat,
drenched with drab brown splats.
Blur like fingerpaint.
But there is no plank,
lean-to, shack or slight
overhang in sight.
Nor odor of wild greens,
cornbread, pork or beans
on the luckless wind.
On the shortgrass plain
wandering in pain,
vision bound and snot
turgid through the clots
of neckerchief and beard—
sweat and salt and tears.
Skull well-bruised and numb,
near delirium
I choke and praise the Lord.
Creeds self-mumbled low—
sotto voce low—
hardly cross near-washes,
rivulets and grasses.
Sprinkle ferrets lightly,
warn coyotes but slightly.
How profligate the awe and fear!
Greg Huteson has an M.A. in English literature from the College of William and Mary. His poems have appeared in the Christian Century, the Saint Katherine Review, and other journals. For most of the past twenty years, he has resided in Taiwan and China and his poems often reflect these contexts.
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