Thunder the Poor Plagued
Thunder the poor plagued,
the tread thread barest.
Thunder the crow black priests
beaks clattering, hands anointed
with broken oaths.
Thunder also the mean streets
and all the mean sisters of hope forgot.
Thunder under a seashell dark,
for a flea picked residue
is the image of love,
God bedecked in the vesture of the ragged,
a derelict in a derelict park.
Thunder in the unmade bed
where sweat exhausts an arid skin.
Thunder all headless silences
That hammer hard upon the breast.
Thunder the naked man
under the coffin lid of this moment
and the next. Thunder until words
riddle and warp, being all things left
after the clap and roar.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2022
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