225 Readings | 2 Ratings

the trumpets at dawn

the earth spinning
its spine jutting
drowning in the heavy taste
of bone marrow

lost in a thrashing
of meadow larks
twisting in their own melody

kicking up the dirt of days
the worst of days
that fold
that threaten bold
out across the fields
that have withstood
the militant march of seasons

we scratch for reasons
let our blood race
trace the broken lines
that define our borders

we face mountains that reach
upwards with a quite groaning
of noble veins
hands of cold bronze and blistering gold
singing atmosphere and ozone

the trumpets at dawn
shutter and repeat
stutter and retreat
clawing like dogs for scraps
at the master's table

in this terrible logic
is a longing that marks us
as brother
as sister
as father
as mother
as lovers last
but lovers at last

after all the shifting
the heavy lifting of the sky
and how she drags
the sun along
behind her.
Posted 12/17/12
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