a potters field
bought by the blisters toil
in mana egg
we of the bloodied hands
lie furrowed fallow
and hung from trees imperial crows
ahunched and dim in ash and grey
in the old reams
adrift in warmest time and tide
by the side of a kurgan river
we crouch
dilated under
our wollen mats
and regally
breathe
Friday, December 15, 2006
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