From The Highwayland

( by Nick Mancuso )

-if the black smoke of your wisdom suffocates
the tireless searchers of the weeded truth
those who pluck with unerring grace
the dirtied roots of gasp & prayer
your language is a stinky fish
(I will not eat
nor suffer it)
your house a pits of peals
in which all laughter dies

what forky devil did youspend time
down by the corner in his grace?

that advised and swept
while you wept?
until the angels left?