Monday, May 2, 2016

Speaking Tongues






the little moan fills my head -
continuous hornet-rasp, 
the off-kilter whine 
of wires lost underground

you can read anything 
into a cloud-darkened sky;
omen is a pretty word

this growl, low and tight
as a bone caught in the throat,
lays flat 
               an empty staircase

but simmers every wall 
in the house with its pungency





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