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.


~ by Jeremy on June 15, 2010.

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

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

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ 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 )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: