Underfoot a soup-line

The elect among them in the roost
pile all day & in the long night
hug each other tight not once.
What feeling few ran to borders
cross-country welcome in exodus
hugging tight their million few.
Hewn across between their party
rested a piecemeal of flies
who scurried & flies who died
in the bashing circle of nerve pulled taut.
A knoll thereunder the waving departed
allowed them leave, those sick of roosts,
not from themselves but from those
hard dark mines & bone-heavy seers
who crawl like men tall in their shadow.
What row is it that rows long thence
from home, from what has been
as all they know & all they can?
A queen grew sick, another rose,
each new one diminished for those
who fled along the barren road
to paradise where they too died
hugging & weeping & speaking
but happy in it, happy to hide
far away on grass greener this side.

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~ by Jeremy on June 15, 2010.

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