Connor and Jack bid farewell to the year they've taken to calling "Twenty Twenty Poo" and contemplate the complexities of language in a wide-ranging conversation about a spectacular untitled poem by Diné poet Sherwin Bitsui, from his 2009 collection Flood Song. They discuss movement, the natural world, an extremely informative dissertation and more. Learn more about Bitsui, here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/sherwin-bitsui [Flicking off the light switch.] By: Sherwin Bitsui Flicking off the light switch. Lichen buds the curved creases of a mind pondering the mesquite tree’s dull ache as it gathers its leaves around clouds of spotted doves— calling them in rows of twelve back from their winter sleep. Doves’ eyes black as nightfall shiver on the foam coast of an arctic dream where whale ribs clasp and fasten you to a language of shifting ice. Seeing into those eyes you uncoil their telephone wires, gather their inaudible lions with plastic forks, tongue their salty ribbons, and untie their weedy stems from your prickly fingers. You stop to wonder what like sounds like when held under glacier water, how Ná ho kos feels under the weight of all that loss. Check out episodes of Close Talking on YouTube: www.youtube.com/channel/UCCCSpjZcN1hIsG4aDrT3ouw Find us on Facebook at: facebook.com/closetalking 
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