mysteries

cresting, creasing into...

like that last moment between waking & sleep

when we remember how to trust...

ghosts scrambling into

recitations: will you still love me when i

disappoint you? will you? will you?

there's somethin shocking about

the newborn (goats!)

that knock-kneed unknowing

fur that is butter-soft, almost-summer-soft

bleating for milk

we older ones:

curds clinging to the 

corners of mouths

(some kind of sour, years turning, 

heat and cycles and thickening)

watchin the little ones battle their mother for her body as she parades away their jaws and sounds lolling i thought their mouths were full of blood except really it's the color, raw freshest red,
tongues that are only three days enchanted by this world. 

cry & beg for hot life running down yr throat while

the stillborn feeds the mud.