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Sunday, April 09, 2017

Bison on Low Hill

the bison broods on low hill,
eyeblood colours; hueless wind sings
a music of deformations
and the echoes still in the sublime of silence
carried in the air; eagle circles
the rotting meat of prescence
that died yesterday

'til the smell of loss disappears
in shrouds of the buried
walking unheard in earth and mind;
an age stripped brutal to the bone,
where living is a deep gluttural sound
of something displaced
merely to die alone

in realms of spirit and light
snow-white trampled dull; on bed of rock,
swung in cradle of wild
where man becomes child in the dark,
and the frost comes
from the ghost of stars
and fear is as rough as bark.

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