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Under
the overhang you sit.
You
have managed to erect
some
sort of bivvy, and these
driftwood
toothpicks which you gathered
they
form the bars of
a
jail in front of you, seem to
prop
up this rock.
As
if it would tip without the twigs, you laugh.
it's
a hell of a rock alright, and
you
get off on the sense of security, partnership
it
affords, that you can see it
like
an older brother,
that
you can commune with
so
much tonnage.
This
boulder is to be revered,
like
any black sheep it
tumbled
down from the mountain and
not
quite to the sea
long
ago.
It
is come here
and
here for all time you are: a
squatter
beneath it, halfway ghost -
a
portable shadow: up to the eyeballs in acid and
feeling
such weight.
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