wattle and daub

our youth —
wattle and daub, flimsy as our age,
mud caked but warm and curled
around the firepit — oh how we danced,
savage in our skins, our new jaws clicked
and what was wild in our eyes rose
viperous as smoke and off then off
into the bleach bone sky. ah,
the rage of it all — the rage
and all our brazen ruin, woven
into the hide of our house.

Image: Ondrej Supitar on Unsplash

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