the red fire of coal, black as a pirate's flag
extends itself across lakes that make lines,
on an old man's face; scowls from kazhakstahn
for all that's white: light skinned chulos, snow
belonging to the earth and stones that don't move.

house of crunched hearts, speaking in life-death words,
hunting the little girls and boys that make this life.
saddened for losses that string through lives: barbed wire
holding their treasures and broken fingernails of first love.
a pain we call our own--no one can have them;

priests listen but hear not the cries of sheep
shorn at the feed trough; making life, making death.
still they listen with ears full of creaking bones
of grasses that whisper at the elbows of our heels.
the ocean eats the moon to bring us all the tomorrows.

03/29/2007

Posted on 03/29/2007
Copyright © 2024 Charlie Morgan