I walk along like blood seeking its wound an old animal habit attentiveness to movement backwash of my body trailing narratives behind me stories like cut fingers on someone else's hand
there are roots under my feet scaffolds packed in soil where dark ages hang filling their throats with water there are nightjars above me calling to their masters to those forces vague and unseeable infolded with clouds somewhere high above the city
Don Domanski
ReplyDeleteI walk along like blood seeking its wound
an old animal habit attentiveness to movement
backwash of my body trailing narratives behind me
stories like cut fingers on someone else's hand
there are roots under my feet scaffolds packed in soil
where dark ages hang filling their throats with water
there are nightjars above me calling to their masters
to those forces vague and unseeable
infolded with clouds somewhere high above the city