RH

Photo by Mishal Ibrahim on Unsplash

it is a lonely spirit, isn’t it?

moss-drunk
swamp-sunk
gathering

you were the heft of pool
beneath its gravity —
sucked into a stomach of
sky

I lost you there
in the undercurrents
but you had laid
yourself down like a
grave

you told me
melancholy paints
a violent
dawn

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“The Twa Corbies” Arthur Rackham — “Some British Ballads” (1919)

a bullet is the tongue of fear

and an unkindness of ravens
will be slaughtered, for didn’t

you know? they are bad luck:
singed with the slick

of evil. and you ask why I
do not believe in words. they are

gunpowder.

did you ever see a dying cat? …

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