Language
I sent a new goat to the flock,
small, dark, a poet, she needed no mothering.
At day the pack would keep her at bay,
at night they would make her sing.
Of what? Alas, I speak no goat.
But this: it is a mountain tongue, surefooted, syllabic.
And knowing the desert, it tastes of olives and dates,
of water and wells, and tells
of men with knives whose business is lives,
Rictus upon a rock.
Caleb Cluff
Majorca, Victoria
2.00am 31/5/06
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