Of all this we make music
After the funeral, I dance
dirty with with widow
At a certain low angle of the sun
the day's genesis of water-striders
glitter with inscrutable drive
to eat to fuck to die
The crawdads too decide
to venture out their keeps
in shallow scurry blooms
After the funeral, I danced
dirty with with widow
of the father that died
Batteries of clouds charge
the valley's high anvils
Ancient, how many dragonflies have seen?
bullrush, thrush, collapse, clap
thunder drives us in
After the funeral, I danced
dirty with with widow
of the father that died
in my house-fire.
Desolate, bereft, clipped and beating
All God's children orphaned
No comments:
Post a Comment