who are americans
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I saw a man in the dark.
So what? I said. A man can lurk, can do his junk there in the dark, and why do I care what another man does. I said I saw what I saw—him and the hunting gear in the morning, though dark. He, like his hunting gear, flashed stark and white in the dark. He carried the gear, its ungodly gleam. That’s right, I said, a man moved, flashed teeth. I saw in the dark morning the dark. A man camouflaged. Did he not wish to be seen? I saw him. In the dark and in the morning. I said a thing about ashes and dust. Why? The ungodly flash. The gear in the truck. The hunting gear peeked above the bed, readied, loaded. So I thought. So I said that morning. The truck in gear. It belonged to the man. The morning rose above the truck. I said that morning I saw a man in the early morning. Who was he to be doing his junk so early and in the dark? I asked myself. I had not spoken to the man. No, not for a long time. He went about his mornings and I went about mine. I pulled the weeds and often he sat on his porch, talking loudly, practically shouting into his cell phone. What did he say? Deluge, the morning. Or am I misremembering? I saw him that morning. Loading his truck. So what? He was readied though still it was dark. So what? I said that morning and I meant it. I said I saw him that morning as dark as the dark. I said I saw, and in the morning a man hunted. A man readied, with coffee. A man saw a man hauling hunting gear in his truck. I that man eyeing that man. Was he dangerous? This man, my neighbor? Was he weary? A hunter in the dark. He lifted several bags and dropped them in his truck. I saw him. In the dark, hunting gear—l in the morning a man and in the morning another man. |
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Brian Clifton has work in Pleiades, Guernica, The Cincinnati Review, Salt Hill, Colorado Review, The Journal, Beloit Poetry Journal, and other magazines. They are an avid record collector and curator of curiosities.