I.
the children gather on a hill in moon-
dripped masses while the evening slowly shifts
and scuttles in their eyeless faces, noon
is dead to their surroundings, and the rift
wrong sounds of owls beat in their open throats,
a parenthesis of consciousness, brief hope
implores the splay, skull earth - one knuckling note
enmeshed, incessant, on one hill erecting
one loud hill, a monument to ending
one loud grief; pity this human clay
that to the forces of one loud mind bending
these children resurrected from the grave
(like rain that's nowhere bound they hold their thighs)
one brief tongue to lick and curse the sky.
- 1991-ish
Also see: http://abladeoftongues.blogspot.com/2011/06/epic-poetry.html
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