Four walls
of the finest material
quarry the
neverending attention
of river rock along the
thousand edge
of the road
The weight of the land
is that of a bird
a wing among clouds
a path in the valley
between the large, red eggs
When we graduated
from the mining of gold
into ownership of the best flints
there was eventually a battle
Not listed, a battle.
Don’t say, a battle.
It was a sweet death
in that stone beloved,
uniformed with the kiss
of a clean shadow
Like how a tooth
together with
another tooth
becomes the jaw
of the land
***This poem initially appeared in the second issue of Horned Things Journal, which you can find here.
JBR.com 