Based in the bayou. Launched from the levee. Leftovers are we. 




For the sick and suffering

But where do the bluefish sleep

When cased in caverns of glass

Upswept from the milky silt and loam

Beneath the dead and brittle sassafras

What happens to the lizard skins

Bleached to flakes by southern sun

Do they take to stone and sulphur

Do they rest or do they run?

What do they ask of you

The chasmal eyes of black boys yawning

The shallow nights, and spells to summon

The harvest moon, ripe for the falling

Where goes the shadow of the man

who came to love the one who withers

A body breaking loose of flesh

The yellow bones to bend and shiver

How the ash sweeps clean the ground

and sharps are scoured by soft flurry

How, through winters, without a sound

Did we beg respite not to hurry.

A Martyr's Game

A Martyr's Game

May, this year

May, this year