Saturday, February 8, 2014

Latest Poem


Under a terrible moon,
in grass that is black,
I slit the belly of the night beast.

Somewhere in the tree line
something calls out
and I hold up my bloodied hands as proof

I mean what I say, I mean what I pray.

How the blood, like the grass,
has lost its color,
how the black
refuses the light.

The stars watch
and close their eyes.


Photographer Jordan
Poem completed on 2/7/14