The perfect pits
in the snow around
the lowbush blueberry stems
awaken in me
the old urge to collect—a museum
of pots and bronzes,
and in the plaza,
a fountain that accommodates
every coin-sized absence…
Dave Bonta (bio) often suffers from imposter syndrome, but not in a bad way — more like some kind of flower-breathing dragon, pot-bellied and igneous. Be that as it may, all of his writing here is available for reuse and creative remix under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License. For attribution in printed material, his name (Dave Bonta) will suffice, but for web use, please link back to the original. Contact him for permission to waive the “share alike” provision (e.g. for use in a conventionally copyrighted work).
Oh! again. Breathtaking!
Thanks. I’ve been reading Francis Pryor’s wonderful books on British archaeology, which is what put the sacrifice of metal objects in mind.
It’s rather mysterious, the seemingly universal impulse to throw coins into water, or to hammer them into trees. Sacrifice or bribe?
I’ve been reading Thomas A Clark’s The Hundred Thousand Places. I think you might like it.