Come,
silent and hot
in the noonday sun
the empty room buried
black with appeasement
and dust.
Safe
from all but
ourselves, and gilded
with recriminations
there will be space,
but no time we
can capture.
Late, we
are too late,
children, playing
sterile games judged
worthless
by those we love.
ware
Last night,
a dog gnawed my leg
off.
I had the marrow
for breakfast
and carry it around
over my shoulder.
Look, you can tear
at it yourself,
the blood comes off
in layers,
and there's hair
under the skin.
I
could burn
candles
for nights spent
without sleep, ruminating
methane through the guts
of memories, but
this
could not help turn
flesh into fowl, nor cheapen the trade
sufficiently I think too much
for want of sport
John Henry
Calvinist
