There is blood
on the ground.
Every effort, every
step
more than
metaphorical,
blood of man
or blood of beast
this year or
last.
A boy's broken
nose once
bent in
neighborhood sport,
or a
rabbit's full measure,
even now lost,
forgotten,
locked in a
dim recess
spurred once
from predator appetite.
Drops or gouts
blood on this
spot
is or was,
blood has flowed
stern testament,
insistent
underline
of what is
fragile,
forewarning us
of the waiting hand from above or behind,
our short-lived
stint wasted or worn,
on this weigh
station to eternity.
There was
blood
at one time
on this very
spot,
this patch of
earth,
square parcel
on our circling globe
hurtling
curved thru dark-edged space,
light here at
the gravity pull,
skipping wet
rock like it flees to forget,
or ignore, bypass
what waiting warmth,
what heat
would bake my blood free
and give me
end,
or change me
to a higher form.
No comments:
Post a Comment