Skip to content

Street Preacher

January 3, 2015

image

Friday passed.
Sunday came.
Again.
Seven days.
Six in the sun.
Then one in the rain.
Amongst the dying.
And the saints.
You are a dove.
Amongst a parliament of ravens.
And the spots on dice.
A thrice pricked thumb.
And all that comes with it.
Snow in an empty garden.
The warm, opiate shore.
Lapping at my feet.

I believe.
Your mother’s name.
Was an oath.
And an oar.
For my boat.
Which I rowed.
To the isle.
In the middle of the lake.
There to slake.
Your thirst.
For what lay in the earth.
Interred there.
For many long year.
But you always preferred.
To have your hands in the dirt.
And your boat.
On the pier.

“You’re the best I ever had”.
Said the doe.
To the stag.
“You’re all I ever needed”.
Said the cow.
To the steer.
He said.
“Do you ever think”
“About what you spit in the sink?”

And she said.
“Who ever would”.
“Mistake those wine stains”.
“For blood?”
She was right.
In her way.
For when the dusk slays the day.
You forget Friday’s body.
Is Sunday’s firewood.

Advertisements

From → Poetry

Leave a Comment

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: