<div class="body-text">broadcast from the village loudspeakers, far away, like a scratchy 1940s radio. a language for bees or aliens. the nashi in the village orchards are coming into their sweetness. half the farmers are retired or dead. long lives swallowed by the soil.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="body-text">there’s no war in the forest, just trees disordered in their own way, steep hills, sculpted terraces. old, old stone walls bedded in volcanic loam. the echo of chisels. weaponry would be inhuman.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="body-text">I tend these woods like the man before me, subtracting myself from inoshishi trails, sightlines the doves fly through. the forest breathes all the time. shifting. familiar, yet ever-distant.</div>
<div class="line"> </div>
<div class="line2">cicada susurrus</div>
<div class="line2">an alphabet of evening</div>
<div class="line2">bells</div><figure class="wp-block-audio"><audio controls src="https://admin.rattle.com/audio/GilbertHambrickDisaster.mp3"></audio></figure>

My Brother Buries His Dog

Exodus 15:21

Disaster Wireless

<div class="line">lovecode the ultrasound of your photons</div>
<p class="line">
<p class="line">
<p class="line">
<div class="line">solitude</div>
<div class="line">round the frequency</div>
<div class="line">of stars</div>
<p class="line">
<p class="line">
<p class="line">
<div class="line">apple-snap</div>
<div class="line">autumn brisk</div>
<div class="line">of a crush</div>


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May 19, 2015Three HaikuRichard Gilbert

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May 19, 2015Three HaikuRichard Gilbert

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Disaster Wireless by Jennifer Hambrick