and a stitched quilt of small prisons
containing birds and little dutch girls.
once i was watched.
patchwork tourniquet and blindfold.
the gospels spill the blood best
and these hollow eyes and lungs say such things
bemoaning beasts and breasts cleaving to the plainest plains.
a needle for an offering
sticky with intent; my ratlegs twitch to stay awake.
drawing crosses in gravel now...
slow crows sit sideways and wait.
for the ascension of rain or for me
silent playgrounds chatter
and i am like your last earthly pleasure
or something antisocial, like a low sigh
that no one who knows you ever hears.
the skull purrs with memory.
roars in the throat like a waterfall
utterly possessed of oceans' cries....
i will be there waving
when my bones repent.
but to whom but the moon i know not.
1 Recent Comments
No comments yet - be the first to post one!
Would you like to comment?Join ink-circus.net for a free account, or Login if you are already a member.