Sunday, February 17, 2019

POEM


We tusk the hours, we shed, we blaze, 
we pig. And so the sense hardens, 
becomes obsidian deep in our souls, 
but there are no souls, there is none -- 

but they do exist, another says, 
leagued with this being which is catastrophe, 
which is always the same ceaseless state 
of breaking, of falling, graveling down 

to ravine the hoard-waters that glide 
there, that flay. Flowers, 
open and deliquescent, that bend. 
Grasses that move.