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Husk
Whipped into a corner by some gust
Torn at the edges, far below
A window, stains of dried rain like copper, dry tear-beds
A place where ragged nails taste like an obituary
A track to nowhere… lay this swan down over the sleepers
Gently does it, sweetly into place, the palms
of summer have offered powdered bones
into the hum of powerline days
Let me have your clamorous stare; the red eye
of this ember fissks into past womb-waters
I am diaphanous, a web, or just a...
a... feeling of shellness...
NJP Dec 2009
