September 30, 2012

poem 354 of a poem a day for 2012

they have come to wire my soul

these voices
that are calling me
that are telling me
to throw bones
they say
they want
all the scattered
pieces of decay
to be hanging
in the damp
cold tannin bloom
just outside
the back door

decorate, decorate
open the crates
they say remember
the odd pumpkins
and the window sill
faces to be made
candles to spades
the fresh graves
smell best in Autumn

you succumb
more gallantly
to the ends of things
when leaves fall
and you listen
to what is calling
through the dark
on your way home
at night

you wonder
when you listen
to all the sounds
their knives take
to the rain
when might it be
Dawn again
when can you stop
their bleeding
inside you


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