life is a curious bazaar: Memory Text III

III:: memory text

at night you can hear the swamps keening/ mourning their lost species/everything deserves some measure of fidelity, coming/going, colours gouge the evening light, thunder dislocates me, everything standing is burned out, and the voices carry me back to the inside, shady, they and their ilk, above/beneath where /memory/ comes from

is a curious bazaar.