The bees came out of the melons and deer's breast.
We shovelled compost with bright light and wet black.
A snake necked slowly through the garden, dragging
some child king with ghostly hands, oiled by juiced.
A winged, dead air sifted around me, past the dead
roses and broken fruit, sleeping plinth ungodly and turning.
Executed beauty, where do you stay after the fires?
Before storms? I keep thinking the shapes will settle.
No comments:
Post a Comment