Sting


Mad whispering from desiccated daughters
when she stirred, and when the wind became a-
wake--parchment rotting, shredding--sad, meaningless dances,
danced. Soft, grey shadows, tattered.
Sly, tender echoes. Small sounds.
Deep, attentive silence when she strained to
hear--sunlight bleeding, failing. Clinging woodsmoke,
suffocating caul. All,
tearless. All, sightless. All, dead.

All living things faced westward, blinded by weeping, blind
when she alit, and when the wind became laden (my hair a-
flame--blood-red, incandescent)--brief, cooling, distant embers
died. Soft, grey ashes, scattered.
Solemn, caustic pallor. Choking mist.
Deep, isotropic drumming when I strained to
heal--sunlight blooming, fading. Coagulating shadows,
smothering pall. All in black, a mad-
woman mourned, wept in the wind, was lost.

I was found, longing to dissolve in dampness, longing
when I wandered half-dark hillsides, breathing deep, wet, heavy wind-
smoke--deliquescent, dripping--sad, automatic dances,
dreamed. Soft, grey reflexes, quenched.
Sputtering chill. Gradual condensation, sure,
her--irreversible, pyrophoric--throbbing sting.
Deep, instinctive silence when we strained to comprehend, to
yield--sunlight scattered, fractured. Focus dissipated,
breathless fall. All in white, a mad-
woman stumbled, bled in the rain, was lost.



JDP 97/04

Copyright John D Porter © 1997



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