Jun 042015
When I am bones I'll have no fleas
My marrow gone I'll whistle free,
When eyes have melted I'll see no wreathes
Nor hear in earholes the sad trombones
Gathered at my spaded acre.

When buried hunchbacked and sacred,
When grave weeds hiss at foot and wrist
And no psalms calm my pinching chest,
Pennyeyed blind I'll seek the skull sail
Of Charon's fatal craft on the Styx.

And when one day I'm bones no more
When no whistle lifts and no root knuckles
And I am less than I was before
Conception sailed me to mothering shores,
Still will my small flea words jump and struggle.

Sorry, the comment form is closed at this time.