Tags
Halloween poetry, hear my bleating, let the grass weep in my image, mongrel's hour, poem, Poetry, sonnet
Thousand names for flesh and its answering
silence. Fold into you. Like so. Like so.
A child’s cry. Of pain and of pleasuring;
but not a cry, no foal’s moan that I know,
no lamb. No body turned to face the trees.
Autumn branches, immaculate muscles
grinding, we all grind but nothing will please.
Nothing that I can touch. Leaves stripped. Mongrel’s
hour. Let the grass weep in my image. Frown
as I swallow down what you did not do.
Here are the names that I give. Grave robber;
they dug and they took. You heard my scream down
in the field, you heard my bleating. But you
never replied; never raised a finger.