And this too is news –
gusts blown over the lip of a bottle,
and the wail of foghorns, hollows of owls
and mourning doves, the howl of dogs
harmonic with sirens, the slow pull of saws.
This is what forms in the throat,
musters the larynx to cry and peal,
the ochre traced hand on a wall
deep below heathen, below judgement,
to form in some future mouth
that all were here before,
before the plaintive cry,
before the leads that bleed,
before the less spoken of –
hands that carry children,
Spin the better myths of us,
those webs of our leather,
the binding of our sweet brute nature,
so often disused by many
who would split a tongue viper.
Sweet and Bitter Greens 