Vol 1 No 1 2007
Death
You didn’t kill this man
he wasn’t the harbour master
he wasn’t a soldier in battle
he transported iron-caged animals on trains
and his heart nested on tall mountains
sometimes his blood would speak
and then dark black birds would block out the clouds
bearded black winds would surround the plain
pear trees would sing his story
in the house of fire full of wild beasts
cups of death on the tables
sunless curtains the oil lamp and cold words
the oil lamp and cold loveless kisses
from lewd girls of silence
who close the windows every evening
who crucify sleep every evening
who shred and eat their dresses every evening
falling on their backs and spitting out their dreams
Evan Jones