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ash in the mouth
You speak of vows like broken tools,
iron bent, still hot in the hand;
seeing the feast tipped into a gutter,
and name each grain of choice.
Dogs sniff at what was once a meal,
grass bows away from the teeth.
The wind carries scents you do not forgive.
There is a field where promises rot-
fruit collapsing inward,
sweetness leaking into the soil.
Some walk there hungry, some in disgust,
all with shadows long behind them.
You throw stones at the well,
hearing no splash. I lean over,
and see only my own face, wavering.
.
Copyright ©
Frederick Kesner
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