by J S Clark
Bones slept within other skin,
broke out with a great jangling,
& lovers frayed their hands. Trees
rose, stilt-like, into the winds.
Cracks of earthquakes skiffed
about the waves of their bloated
underthings. Shuttled about so,
& content, this was the shift.
Our hands stroked the open page
until the bugs pumped salival
and self-jellied cables of retch
into the shelves. & we breed
pastless children. & we bleed
them, not for the new hunger—
but for that pleasure of sorrow.
We protested, placed opinions.
We set branch & metal as snares,
as surrender, but none responded.
& we wondered when it ended.
Then as the stars went as sallow,
crippling themselves, the ravens
pecked where we were getting sick.
But at least we knew our gallows.