The people’s song
Strong arms
Reaching over the side
Rough waters slapping
Holding onto threads
Woven into nodes
Old fingernails packed with dirt
Unearth roots, rhizomes
Haunted smells of inedible richness
Grabbing anywhere
For the centre of the tuber
Crimson coagulated bloody hands
Skillfully carve the carcass
Slide silently onto servers
Multiple selves served
No fixed diet
Distant drums from an earlier mark
A beginning text
Still heard in the words and nods
Scrapes and signs
Everything is text becoming
More......
No comments:
Post a Comment