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The Poetic Ghetto of Elemental Process
Pull down your hooded eyes,
They can't predict when bone
Will curl like roots of lightning,
Striking where all lips burn grey,
All storms have thrown
Their stones of turning words
As battened tongues flown loose,
Heads whip and spill;
The slowing rush,
The dripping thunder
Tears small echoes from each hill,
There's no direction left to run,
The calling hides its hands of arrows
Wind slung deep in falling caverns
Mountains gouging out dark skies,
Where no one breathes in risen ash
But crawling cry into rain's rotted mouth.
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