In-breaking wildness or other sort of poetic rupture makes a lesion some seek to heal (keep the savage at bay) but this stoma makes real the passage of breath. Some speak of shamans the claimers of a magic so basic to creatures of this spring-fed belly and here we are blood-bound bone of bones gristle and grist the animal gush of our being. Magic belongs to the numinous but the thing we need is oozy the murmurs the gurgles the humors of this sylvan seep to write a lune, a crescent-shaped suture to hold the wound open.
Becoming a Naturalist 63, prose-poem by Jack Phillips.
*Convergence of springs at the foot of Pahuk, sacred Pawnee bluff in eastern Nebraska, in early December. (Photo by Robert Smith.)