Mourning
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Rainclouds corset the sky.
Sheep cough out next year's lambs.
The hills spit up their unfinished poems.
I sleep in a straitjacket of grief,
never knowing who is tightening it,
or whether the audience is taking notes,
ready to chide or correct.
Sheep cough out next year's lambs.
The hills spit up their unfinished poems.
I sleep in a straitjacket of grief,
never knowing who is tightening it,
or whether the audience is taking notes,
ready to chide or correct.
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