the saddest blog that ever was

11.01.2005:

To Millet (and Cathy Lemaire)


This broken dirty husk of a person
Laid before us today.
Heaving dust, emanating from
Bent-up bones.
The gnarled fingers uncurling
Slowly. One by one.
“Here. Drink. Come this way.”
We combed the weeds out of his hair
Tumbling down in unfragrant waves.
Sitting together under a hot disc of sun
How you smoothed his thirsty, furrowed brow.
He said: “There are so few of us left
Still roaming this sodden trampled earth
Skimming the land with slow feet and hand
Gathering the grounds and seeds of our dispersal
Threshing the stalks until they crumbled under the weight
Of our immense desire for wheat, into the dark mud.”
You touched softly all the folds of skin
Bearing the knotty fruits of our labor.
Labor, in the end, defined by a magisterial sort of grace
A race towards the conquest of that endless horizon.

Between exhalations of tensile breath, hovering
I felt equally the heaviness
Of blessedness and dread…

Your hands, they are little gods
Orchestrating equally
O’er the living and the dead.

Blog // 5:20 PM

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