a happenstance
  when silence screams
dirt brown
six feet down
even in the swelter of summer
is cool to the touch
where the worms turn
flesh into dust

a frenzy of thoughts
 (a murder of crows)

speaking the language of
 ears and parts    growing 
slowly slowly  old

there will be fruit   on the table
by dusk  and we will eat
  juice running down our chins
  licking each other’s fingers clean

until our hearts  
seeds planted there
 in flowerings 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s