Stone lords – marching on stone ravels
A snare drum in between each trot-full hoof
I see them, and so the shivers…
‘Cause each frosting of the mourning; leaves wet
Wet – wet from my own birth.
Another dream, now killed from mean labor…
Is this an airplane?
…Or perhaps some old wings?
The skies will tell me, but won’t say
And so my hands drop, to reveal inside ghosts
Weird waters, now, I must play.
