now three kings
have come
into a sun of vines
walk
into a timber wind
into the work
which which is never a thing
never the thing itself
there's no touch
cruel gale that laughs white walls away
what's not ploughed is where you walk
clouds can hardly fit the horizon
black faced sheep come tinkering after
and black goats
like a gust through the vines
sky like laid paper
you could poke your eye out with this wind
some winter trees are shuddering wrecks
embarrassed for last leaves
hip begins to ache again
dogs do the barking round here
will there be saints enough to protect
when the martyrs' blood is all quaffed?
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.