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Quiet Country in the Name of Fields

By Sam Pekarske From Issue No. 6

recreating stillness in my home

by the ear of the city savvy—

I think of the quietude of outlands

as a roughened silence / where skies

consume sound like the lights,

forfeiting memories of stars,

of wildlife or the movement of trees

with passive shuffle-sounds of wind.

I think of wrapping darkness

and silence in totality / the animals

are dead, as still as a thing can be.

a man asked to watch a meteor shower

forgetting my enduring apathy,

so I went along / it was beautiful,

but inside of painful thought, I didn’t care.

so I pull my curtains for dampening.

my house, it sits dug into the ground,

lets its dirt / cement shroud hold the streets,

and sirens are caught in humid air,

shuffling drunks can’t pierce through,

like they’ve never been actualized—

this is how I see the creeping dark

of land away from liveliness.

it’s fidelity to the void, or it’s

all the ways that I don’t know better.

keep my missing memories intact,

let me trust in the silence of far away,

it’s deafened.

About Sam Pekarske More From Issue No. 6