the wayward hunter stops short-
in the grasses, somthing is moving.
the air that springs a quick scent
rolls unevenly across the green.
the river plunges a deep curve,
nearly breaking itself in two.
no roar, it meddles soflty
with round stones.
the hillside calms after torrents,
a relentless raining sound of winds.
no one is there.
on the horzon, no night creeps.
and the promise light,
in keeping itself illuminated,
kills fear,
and burns hope away.
go home, soft-eared hunter,
toss restlessly in coarse cotton bedsheets.
the window glows all night
the sun seeks every angle.
no night means no day,
and on your knees in the brightness,
the killing brightness,
gouge out your eyes
that you will not see the beasts.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment