Daniel Hansen
THUMP There is a porcelain sheen to your step, Boy, go down to the hill; stop, pick it up. A day, a tobacco day, tonguing its hilarity: find it, pull it out; it is -- knotted to the hill. Boy -- you dig your knuckles in the loam that squats on the dime store slope, that hoots at you like the bony girl with mushroom-cap breasts freckled and pallid, lapping at your clavicle. You plow into its rooty pubes, fall outside the seventh cloud, its mossy spine, and, Boy, you'll get the whole book, the hum of that thumping hill, a red hand, a roundness to your belly that hauls. And, if the day holds to ranks, she, that femme of tilled earth, the knobby knobby racer, the one who gave you the grab, will cat-walk the hill and raise her gauzy yards.
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