PoetrySpring 2020

Rush Run – Pierce Clifford Brown

pulling into the mouth of Big Rush Run off Route 7, heading north. Hillside exposed like rockbone — a dirt path carved out of the hills for draglines and cranes to move further up and excavate. Not mountaintop removal but a smaller version of how I might imagine mountaintop removal looks. A bit like how we would disfigure Mars if given the chance. The mud an orange, oily tint, dirt-dust misting the windshield like a sparse fog

all those homes bought and bulldozed. No more broken trampolines in front yards. Barrage of garbage along the unmown lawn. How you learn most from people by what they throw away and even more by what they leave to be seen

all that’s in view now is earth’s underskin. All these machines, surgeons grafting together earthskins, reclaiming the land to retain its “original” worth, its beauty, if beauty is worthy and worthiness original in the objects we choose to see

Pierce Clifford Brown is a writer and translator. He currently lives in Washington, DC. 

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