Untitle
We are not formed for the long dark
The goring of eyes and lips. All
Rushing to nothing on sodden
Wings
The shudder that stubs out each harp
Stirs inside, a dragging of nail
Along bone. This certain-sudden
Sting
Like spit across the stars, ices
Seared grass and stooping with a soiled
Complexity, tenders the time
It
Does little but point our choices
Clamped with age. Processed flesh. Some world
Or some grey mound hangs here, hangs dim
What
Final instruction remains?
Only the wind over stones
The goring of eyes and lips. All
Rushing to nothing on sodden
Wings
The shudder that stubs out each harp
Stirs inside, a dragging of nail
Along bone. This certain-sudden
Sting
Like spit across the stars, ices
Seared grass and stooping with a soiled
Complexity, tenders the time
It
Does little but point our choices
Clamped with age. Processed flesh. Some world
Or some grey mound hangs here, hangs dim
What
Final instruction remains?
Only the wind over stones
Credits
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