Oxen of the Sun 408
Where are all our recent ghosts now?
an ancient desire on a stone
cooked fine with mercy and loneliness
beating out a lover's name on a skin of
life, a torn winner glad of his victory
remembering only today.
How impossible it is to be
reminded of our genius water
while pissing in this river
we cross on dark horses
we are close to home
how can we contain all this air?
our names become promises of
noisy failure- our flag is fallen and
easily mistaken for yesterday.
We wish we had left something more.
No comments:
Post a Comment