Null over the barrens
snows continued from the river
in a single drifting
like the back of an owl
spreading to flight
where dark bluffs began to rise.
I scratched a wall of stone
like strolling orchid gardens
beneath the frozen prism trees.
Held quick in these cold opals
I stood the hill gazing at the white break
with bitterness limb to limb
for the shame of this hurt
to survive for the buried,
I fed you my mouth of flies.
About John Swain:
John Swain lives in Louisville, Kentucky. Crisis Chronicles Press published his most recent chapbook, Rain and Gravestones.
This is primal, Mr. Swain.
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