You are reading Fiddleblack #7
Train worming below topsoil pressed, topsoil sat upon, topsoil stamped, a thumbprint turning, and still the worm worming, coiling and repeating backandforth backandforth backandforth. Worm rattle the topsoil coming, an earthopening, an eyelash, a questionmark of wind burrowing in the misjointed maw of dirt, breeze on the graining loose cover, sneaks below.
Cacklecrow circling, men, sweat pouring, backs a sweatstain, a mark, dried ring of white, and a band of weeds struggles in the cracking, presses past thumbs and twirls into the air, hot and gasping they will not, ground towering, poured and molded and everpressing, men stomping between sweating, backandforth backandforth.
Crow beating, these wings the last and only, the crooks their flapping sound and rankle, mouths spread caught open, anticipating the sweatfall, the dirtcatch of skin, the licking of dust swept into piles, calm waiting and reverberating above the below of worming, waiting and calmed by the falling stacks, unstacking and rumbling, these breath-lessened weeds and undoing worms.
Dom Blanc lives and works in Cleveland, Ohio.