Saturday, April 09, 2005

Poem: Washed

We are washed in the
superheated blood of
experience, driven like
mad things and cattle
at stampede against
the strongest wind

We are bitten by the
teeth of our passions
and the hungry fangs
of all the other wolves
in the pack, alpha to
delta and up again--

Reborn as the cold morning
cracks, left with scars,
burned by the heated
blood, pierced by fang
and talon, finding only
a confused ambivalence
with which to nourish
us as we run ever further
into the hidden horizon
of the future.
at

No comments:

Post a Comment

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)

Across Inconstant Breath

Would that this skin this frail armor atop the husk of slow departure -  Would that it held against the teeth  of night's maw a...

  • Coming Upwards Toward the Light
    (in honor of the apparently, partially visible periods I use to alter spacing) The suggestions of gravity ...... Are sometimes taken and... ...
  • Broken Teeth of Our Battlements
    Prove this with your science, Hercules, you with your trials and madness, soaked in the blood of the vanquished. Prove this with your scienc...
  • Texture of Her Secrets
    The shapes of animals move against her skin in the dim light, the forest reaching out to touch the essence, sick with need like I was then, ...