Clay
A shoulder of pure clay cut
with runnels
set to music, round nimble
notes, each fat,
plucked chord sustained in
eternal cascade
to the concertina of the spooling
Manistee above Red Bridge,
blue blazes
worn smartly by these still,
mute sentinels -
their averted gaze twining
into
graceful arches that usher
us from one
moment to the next, fine
capillary
weave stretched tight over
ribs of stabbing light
that illuminate the slick
kaolin
vein, a surgical tent to
conceal the
fingers we plunge into the
wound, smearing
our faces, the trees
thrilling to our howls.
Love!
ReplyDelete