Tuesday, August 24, 2010

Having No Shape But Stained, Nonetheless

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Oxen of the Sun 390

We heel who catch
Caught and cracked
The skipping lightning of our time
Without time
We are consumed, breathed, wretched
And given to great strokes
of nightwind coming at us in angles, our
Honor spills forth in grievous rage.
I am gentleman and brother
What does the earth offer to
Make a month of rain?
What is said by the seed crushed
Against chance?
Where does the west shelter
against its own barrenness?

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