Thinking

I am thinking that

to make thinking new again

is torch-lit work, subterranean

and exalted. Antarctica, Goethe,

Methuselah. Seven hills of Rome.

An advertisement for a summer farming gig

on a homestead in Alaska puzzles me:

imagine harvesting kale through days

of unrepentant 24-hour sunlight,

covered in mosquitoes. How do you do

the things in the dark when there is no dark?

I want now to tell you abt my love

for my whip, for killing the engine and sitting

in the garage. This is also an ancient

practice.