Tuesday, April 22, 2014


Yarrow stalks in the thaw
seem the ghosts of all flowers;
brittle lace skeletons
a thousand warriors deep.

I'm treading on the toes
of Mount Magnificent.
A rock face glimpses mine
from around a corner.

Here will appear blue poppies
and there is the bend where
a boy once barked at dogs;
my greatest fears passed there.

I will cut off his hands
if he does not start to speak.
Crushed brains smell of walnuts.
I could break your arm now.

The light softens and lingers,
spreading to the ocean.
Are we home? I ask of
yarrow stalks in the thaw.

Cold tears drip from the clouds
onto blackcurrant buds.
This is our home for now,
its heart, broken--like ours.

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