Young buck tappingits velvet against thebathroom window inthe morning. The landleaning in the pines,the well, cattails,muscadines, hot metal,in the shed, chicory onthe stove at twilight. Inthe orange morning Irose w/ my grandfather,w/ the larger animalsof our imagination, andwarmed the truck to goto the water. On theway I laid down in thetruck bed and caught arabbit barely in thegrasp of a hawk. Whatdid I know about beinghunted? I kneweverything. The meekdon’t inherit shit—Istuffed my mouth withpine needles and spit, bledand spit, at theroot, and look where it’sgot me—landless. Ifthe water was a myth, thenI went in lookingfor my dog only to findmy grandmother’sarmchair. I rode it as Iwould any wet story—to deeper blue. Listen:by lamplight mygrandfather would leadme to the edge of thewoods—this is yours—then he would kill thelight. If I told you heflew back to his house,what are you supposedto believe; it was justme and my green hopepressing through theblack. How else am Isupposed to enter theworld if I’d already leftonce: as myth: not setapart: but as a smallshelled thing: low:toiling in the dirt: liftingevery bit of black tobreathe