PrOjEcT Eleven—Inclined

String strung taught between stakes
Inclined Some ages and ages hence, I’ll write poetry aside the stream I plot in this yard today. This storied stream begins atop the stone stairs I crab-walked and flipped/flopped into place fifteen years ago, a falls to be carved into the bank, the zero mark of my measurements to find the topography of the yard, to note the natural fall water takes already, a path I’ll dare to alter, as always fiction deflects reality. Knowing nothing, or next to, about the surveyors art, naught of theodolites, tribachs, or yellow vests and hard hats, I donned a baseball cap and filled a bucket with a hammer, kite string, spray paint, a tape measure, a pencil, a clip board and a four foot level. I marked the yard with white dots spaced at yard intervals, staked the zero mark and measured the drop in inches to each spot, assuring the kite string pulled taught was level-ish, and knowing that each mark was plus or minus some percentage of the string’s length at each point, so at the spot where I wrote one hundred twenty inches below, I was possibly much less than a story, or much more, given my novel way of attempting to plot against nature and my tendency to stray from inclinations.

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