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The Baying Heart
Standing at his garden door,
he sips moonlight,
smells the closed blooms.
He is amber in a wine vat,
a coagulant of red shadows.
The darkness supports
his bones, it plucks at the stray
threads of stale years.
What is this shine behind his eyes,
this starry vortex
beneath his shoulder blades?
Strange angels have entered
through his unleashed being
and they are feasting
upon his compliant psyche,
dressing and undressing themselves
with his raw and wordless prayers.
Stillness finds its voice,
but will not speak it
until death becomes life.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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