Five Horizons
the first
tongue
you tasted;
nay!
the pounding
of heart
that followed—
guile or guilt?
you,
a farmer
and each till,
a harvest
of naive torsos;
philistia.
angels hatting nurses' cap
tumble
in hills
popping sounds,
grenades
through tunnels
playgrounds,
scamper about
in red-wet-dripping
skirts
dancing to fear.
a little boy
of four
seated
in defiance
upon his
mother's remains
weeping
his last,
protesting
against God
and machines.
if only once
that the essence
of living
is the wastage
and passage
of time;
and that death,
a scattered form
of love,
is merely the sleep
of atoms.
**previously published in ArcPoetry.
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