Like You, I am Made of Dirt - Collaboration w/ Andrew Grace
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"Like You, I Am Made Of Dirt"
Collaboration with Poet/Author Andrew Grace.
Poem typed on vellum overtop silver gelatin print assemblage.
2024 -
STRT 95 Telephone Pole
Silver Gelatin Print Assemblage
2024 -
Larimore Road Bridge
Silver Gelatin Print Assemblage
2024
like you, I am made of dirt-
the field made bright by the husks of its undoing-
corn the color of bone, deer the color of bone-
Lot's wife and her salt ever after-
a herd of dereliction, a gift of nevertheless-
lightning kicks like a horse-
parallel lines of furrows a bridge to trees who scream like mice when wind rubs them together-
the farm is chalk because I look back on it-
bird bones like tines of a fork-
like you, the walls of my house are plaster fortified with horse hair-
a moment moving further away, no matter how often you return to it-
Like you, I don't make enough money to find the country where I can heal-
Nothing else but to endure, to
Drainage ditch
The moon as round as a leech's mouth
I watch a spider hang
Its protein chandelier
like you, I am made of dirt-the field made bright by the husks of its undoing-
corn the color of bone, deer the color of bone-
Lot's wife and her salt ever after-
a herd of dereliction, a gift of nevertheless-
lightning kicks like a horse-
parallel lines of furrows a bridge to trees who scream like mice when wind rubs them together-
the farm is chalk because I look back on it-
bird bones like tines of a fork-
like you, the walls of my house are plaster fortified with horse hair-
a moment moving further away, no matter how often you return to it-
Like you, I don't make enough money to find the country where I can heal-
Nothing else but to endure, to
Drainage ditch
The moon as round as a leech's mouth
I watch a spider hang
Its protein chandelier
corn the color of bone, deer the color of bone-
Lot's wife and her salt ever after-
furrows form a bridge to trees who scream like mice when wind rubs them together-
the farm is chalk because I look back on it-
like you, I don't have the money to find a country where I can heal-
sheaves of wheat lashed together as if shelter-
my father's voice inside a phone line gripped by a kestrel-
like you, the walls of my house are plaster fortified with horse hair-
Lot's wife did not look back for nostalgia, it was to see if her father's house burned-
all sight lines flow into the drainage ditch-
a moment moving further away, no matter how often you return to it-
field made bright by the husks of its undoing-
Andrew Grace, Author/Poet
2024
https://www.andrewpgrace.com/
