Kim Dorland, Hitchhiker, 2009 oil and acrylic on wood 36 x 40 inches
The suffering of stony, high horizons,
Under the stir of air, sharpens.
And the water-torture of gorges, hoarse wounds
That cannot cease to be, deepens.
Listening to moorland is a headfull of ether.
The bones of the eye-socket
Go inane. The bones of the ear
Hallucinate a ghost.
The soul clings to its skull
Like a tremor
To a tuft of bog-cotton.
Or leaps onto a lark's back
With an idiot song, lost in air.
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