Alchemisland

To me Yanks have two kinds of voice

Sounding either

Yeehaw pistol or wistful

Broken by

TB-severed family ties

One of lights, noise, luridness, blur, opportunity

Another of low cairn graves on ghostly prairies

Crosses unscathed by date or name

Hacked hatefully at or bit bad by a snake hidden in one’s pack

Fleeing hunger, the gaunt natives brought their strange faeries asail

Now every burp and wassail the furze and firs fail to curtail

Was made by a mage

Holding onto epistles

Missing livers and eyes

Rivers and rifles and raids

Divers ways to go astray.