The Mast is Down
We lay in the cursed grass devoid of magic,
tracing our disintegration in the kinetic sky.
I touched your arm and the flesh fell away,
and my hands were no longer empty.
Our mount is made of blood earth,
when wet a clay thing writhing.
If you breathe in its mouth it will fly
above the Moorish towers into the blue.
The Pinta is a ship the lone navigate,
channeling the mind once beguiled.
I touched your hip, the bone fell away
and the sea was no longer empty.
We love yet reclaim our dark sails,
gorging the belly of a red dog.
Do animals make a human cry
when their loved one staggers
fowled dragged down
the blue veined river
Does the female wail
miming the wolf of suffering
do lilies trumpet the pup
plucked for skin and skein
Do animals cry like humans
as I having lost you
curled in a ball
This is how
we beat the icy field
shoeless and empty handed
hardly human at all
Negotiating a wilderness
we have yet to know
this is where time stops
and we have none to go
Death of a Tramp
The hills were green and so were we
but not in the way men talk about
we had not known death
nor walked with stain
for all was bright about the land
We had not known death
yet the sparrows ring
set like a wreath upon the marsh
marked for all that shivered cross
in a cast-off clothes himself cast-off
In sun and wind his tramping drum
the high grass knew his shuffling
kindness wrapped his being mild
his countenance moved the brethren
The stench and sense of aimless wrath
now we know death not so the man
a wildflower stowed in ragged breast
the hills are grieved their innocence