Essence of snow,
its cold ghost:
an endless rush
of vast whispers
tells the pines what we know.
Nettles and cones
black and damp underneath:
guilt for the wounds
a foe incurred
breaking himself on me.
A memory: blood and shit,
the liver and guts
of a two-point buck
steaming in a bucket
in a garage that sheltered my youth.
I have heard of a land
so thirsty, so hot with jealousy
the dead -- so many --
became husks of corn,
broken by men whose orders
Will never stop breaking them.
Silence reigns where they weigh
a man they don't know --
he speaks to them
past the chatter of crowds who hide him.
No comments:
Post a Comment