poem 91 of a poem a day for 2012

where's the lost song of St Anthony

can you 

find it here

spilling between 

the chewed howls

of what's unseen

or perhaps it sings

in the pieces of

Promethean liver

that crows beak

when they clean 

the night of what 

horned roams

find outside 

the grotto

the combed flesh

that feeds Spring

in unfurls here

slow captures 

what the Sun

vines the magic

of each undone

with. though not

without payment

to each other side

a cow or a lamb

or some beans

or some coins

that a pocket 

hides with loins

that know how 

to whistle past

the cemeteries 

that we birth

for every ride

home again

EJR (c)