Thursday, 27 November 2014

from Blackwater Quartet, selection 17


Through dust
twisting upwards in heated columns, by the salt lake a rider
from the centre of this desperation
O Lord
…. war trash of painted shields,
discarded iron weapons, a red tunic
caught in ground thorn

half-eaten ghosts leaning heavily against the sun

on a day
you are encouraged to remember

now every detail called into evidence—
this version of the future,
and the vowels that will not gather to make a name,
and three days of dust, a mouth, this calling to something
just beyond.

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