An Old Lament Made of Mud and Sky
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Oblique corona of absence, black, wailing wind, dust storm of lament, bleak light, the feet that carried her away, out of a crumbling rotunda of stones, are pressed in mud, sun-baked stones
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undone by love's eroding promises, withdrawn are the passionate invitations of a full woman whose roundnesses my fingers crave, my lips measured the distances between her supple upturned ends,
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her scent is gone, her salt no longer sharpens my slackened tongue, the tongue that read to her, recited verses, sung her name, same tongue now stained purple with wine of grapes, cracked lips on which only interminable mumbling splutters,
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reason's gone, blank, dumb and lightless,
a fist shakes, relentlessly, at the sky.
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