Wednesday, June 22, 2011

little satchel

one could imagine it anyway
the settling in the invasion
the colonization of melody
the meme life the not actual
of virus half-strife

blackened now, balded and blasted, the grouse-rid heath

I have no kenning me not now
kenning I have not my wild sow

imagine emmer wheat and rivers
mudstone and sand-stations of the wild cattle
imprints in cuneiform

one huge rock hard-hewn, struck with crystals

the wounded are dying from lack of sanitation
and the town is about to fall
their exhausted faces bewildered, lost


their faces lay undiscovered for five years
his unearthed body still wore those same clothes
as on that day

a little satchel on his back

shove your hand deep in the rivers
and grasp up the mudfish

now light fires by the delta
and forget
what it is to hurt so much



Anonymous said...

Hey -- Great read, Steve. No kenning, eh? I don't know; you've got fire. This one and the ones in the sea at the end of a Goering poem, which are...what?...the rub scrambling around, wishing to be something other than the rub. But that makes the speaker the poet, etc. etc.

Rhyme suits you. Best,

Anonymous said...

Oh,those first five lines are you clearing your voice to yourself before talking to yourself out loud where the rest of us can hear it. Trim-able?

Steve said...

Haha all my stuff is trim-able but my shears are rusted up and seized...

Cheers, E.