poem, poetry

Small Lament for Everything

The rain is solid somehow
wounding the open throat of the tide
and the whole edge of the sky is lost and
the whole world is missing. Still, I hear
the summer and the streets and the slaughterhouses
and all the dead with their yellow hearts,
and all their wire graves wept on.
From ‘A Wound’s Sound’ (Oneiros Books, 2014)

A Wound's Sound

A Wound’s Sound

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