violet bell-flowers, what little scruffs
vetch, what dead ground
the nurse-hogs clean my skin
forest does not mean trees
but rather a hunting lawn
over which is applied forest law
so unhinged, caught in its onslaught
waiting for its own infection
like smoke
the head of an onion
a grievous thing
of the welters
we did that once but now
camera of the canal bottom how
we trod the bellied light
to appear on the victims neck
so fucked and slow we trod
the light into the mud from which
a bloody coughing
as though gazelles or other harbingers
had lighted
such sex such coiled and reaching now vexed
every gasp a tarot card thrown into bloody fog
all of it new and dead
five rise chimneys, dogs everywhere, wild wild as
footfalls of smoke
please
, of people and animals
even when the buboes appeared
everyone else too
sloughed there as so many crying shakes
.
No comments:
Post a Comment