By | 1 October 2010

The king goes under
for the third time,

the birds are not of this world.

Every ship that
ever set sail
or steered
beyond the known,

making landfall
on a beach
of bones.


Passing beneath your window,
tongue in my throat,

the wind filled my ears with
your name, like a curse.

Years earlier, in the glade, we spoke
of gold and wasted hours
(beneath the wasted stars
among the wasted flowers).

You kissed me once and

there is blood
but not a lot

there is pain
but not a lot

there are cries
but not many.

At the top of the hill,
the ground flattens itself.

Cows dying on these pleasant journeys;

The King silent in the deadly waters,
leaving things behind to eat,
like floating fish, blood pink in their blue
water, thin, dying on a shore of bones.

There is a good place to sit near here.

We sit lined in dim light
our hearts failing.

Your name in my ears, your
bones lining my ocean

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