The Age of Sweat
by Evan Harrison
When we managed to make our burning
remote, minds became forested—
darkened with brush, curled in roots,
whispering with predator instinct—and we left
for the safety of the village, for good.
Tonight, driving through a hall
of chain restaurants and malls, a constant buying,
I think about counting the lights
and stop—how they blur like a dream
and require no cataloguing.
It’s summer, and the night retains heat—
we celebrate the closing
of day in radiance, as if to say,
glory to the conqueror, we need nothing.
Though we grow tired and sleep protected
in willed shade. Beyond the gate bears wander,
cloaked in ash.
[Hear Evan read “The Age of Sweat”]
