Wednesday, April 16, 2014

A study, by the writer.

A study, by the writer, of
Sex-as-prison, of
a broken raptor of the evening,
a blind and silent dream of flame.
Money sears the palms of orphans,
lashes borne as woodcut flesh.
Memories dry upon the morning,
no one wondering which comes next.

A study, by the writer, of
and the slave traders who broke them, of
cigarettes in lips,
and the lungs which deign to choke them.

of judges
and the knots they tighten,
of lovers
and the loads they lighten.
A dove, a crow,
the things they carry;
a worm, a mouse,
a sumac berry,
a single thread, a double noose,
a button which has wandered loose,
an ancient piece of gold conniving,
a single sprig of poison ivy.