Taken down to the ruins
Where silence begets silence.
Death eases out of rusty sands.
Oblivion cries wordless,
Face pink, desperate, mad,
Birthed in the cracks
Of shattered stones.
So here I take my rest,
Plopped down amongst tearful
Faces forgotten
In mother earth’s curdled,
Rotten breast.
And in me
Green tendrils
Press behind my pores,
Twist, stretch, curl
Through, around, into
The parched tubes
You call “me,” drunk
On the sightless, soundless, senseless
Liquor not there.
My teeth a fan of petals,
Tongue laced with pollen.
My breath spring.
My kiss summer,
Sweet in the salty sands,
Live, throbbing
In the blank face of silence.
Here, in a sunburnt waste,
I rest in quiet,
And quiet rests in me.
He Who Wanders 