SOME HISTORY OF FIELD WORK

Then November seemed like a whole other gender:the veins of wet leaves splayed upon the bedrock.Skin of the land beneathown blood rushing boyhood out. Under orders nowto , I lie down on a large nurse tree, a fallenlog feeding the rest of the forest with its body; long scardown birch bark. After a whileI get hungry, too, my tongue a useless fruit. But I will liehere until something sings . Birds, back me up—you who leave your first feathers in the brambles.For years, men had to hide their porn in the woods.Desire in exile, insects running in rows. We boysquickly gathering in the reedy ditch to see. Little hands—we were hardly what the ladybugs were looking for.But we held the centerfold sideways until it was takenby the wind. Only by waiting did we come to wanting.Now, there are switches in the air; I can’t stay here.The trout grow so cold they leap into the trees, becomethe stars above this boreal forest. Still, though, Iwould like to , to see what that might lead to.