A piling of people

See them where they sat
then lurked from the temple
upon the early mud.
They had breathed a deep goodbye,
and the larks above heard it,
the grubs underneath heard it,
but I heard only a nothing wind.
Their night I know was hot,
& people in a humid seat
will each wish the other nearer.
The grubs and gales knew no better
but to watch, as did the crickets
who, the new mud tells,
fell to shame, fell to silence
knowing I would come soon,
knowing to scar the wood
with their bodies, and I look,
knock, hear their patter,
their psalms alive then now scattered.
But I will burn neither the temple
nor my clothes, nor my long sight,
but will walk naked on the path
to people whom I crave
so hotly to touch once more,
once they’ve ran through dark dew,
through each other, thoroughly through.
I will spare the temple’s silent word
& things inside who nothing know,
what could but kill and never moan
like the forest moaned last night I heard.
I will burn the forest whole:
lark, language, garment, human,
& the animals made witness below.


~ by Jeremy on May 16, 2010.

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