Woman, willow-stooped and worm-wed,
her voice spilt shadow,
leaving April in soured knots and velvet.
Sad-burst, her bluebell breasts they fade
her silence and her song. Too pink,
her buds for blooming too late
to die. Farewell,
her dumb sun on a child wind,
the rising of dusty muscle
her dry water luminous with bones.
previously published at Bone Orchard Poetry
The wind, it barks, and the forests are without treetops.
the veil of air
reminds me grey-quiet. A brighter sound somewhere
lonely for a scent. A head-down daffodil
a petal from ruin. The people
stuffed in the gut
with jobs and carcasses. Must/
a durable soul
be driven down further? Elsewhere
the sun shines/the ground is warm/
the flowers are bloomed proud.
Previously published at A New Ulster