27 March 2016

Poem-A-Day #27 : Camping on The Battleground

Camping on The Battleground

          White light on
purple eyes          the night skins at you          the reeds
                    wrapped in yellow string          vent themselves
in the mouth exhaust

Lungs aren't quite like pipes          tube fibers
that          branch infinitely          snail feelers
                                                  in search of a shell

                    The conch of the ear radios for help          no one
there          probably a number for an abandoned phone booth

          It's too cold for this          the marsh is milk in this cold
the reeds are turning gray in this cold
                              The sky is a pool of absorbing in this cold

There is the echo of horse hooves          the spectral
          image of a rider          the fires of death
do not go out -