Monday, July 13

WAR 4


So quiet, seems like everyone’s just forgotten how to do it.

In a mixture of rains, fog, torn pieces of wool,

everyone’s lost their fangs, imagine it, love thy neighbor, love thy

crashed bank marble,

thy fathers and brothers thy mothers in the stars’ cores, thy pearls



                on a black dress, a green blouse,

down the pressed trousers,

how in love with you I am, stag, wolf,



a primrose begun near volcanic inactivity, in the flatlands

                                  a weapon a lissome candelabra

left on the bar floor,

                                             and mouthless, only hounds on earth

left to answer when the world calls.



(Gillian Conoley)