Sep 13, 2005


Say this is irrefutable, a sack
of bones sings when prodded
with sticks:

the arid limbs of this grove,
which throw portentous shadows
on visages, the bowl

wherein the sea & the air &
the blood are contained. The stars
dip & swerve: this is justice.
The fragrant herbs come
up from the warm ground, the ground
drinks the thick
potions. Bury them
with scarves & gourds. The ghosts
of the unwanted swirl, a torrent
around this clay hill. We repel
them with a racket. Still,
we fall, as many as one
each day.

No comments: