Broken skin burned by bracken, toil.
An earth printed palm.
A shovel, older than memories,
The slight horizon calm.

Years of making others’ beds,
Time spent digging.
The wind and rain he must endure,
Whilst waiting for the living.

Closely attending,
Unclouded attention to subtle changes,
Different today,
I must notice,
Or be left out of,
Something which has changed,
Amost imperceptible,
As it should be,
Admired from up close,
Held and embraced,
I drag my fingers through your hair,
And wrap my arms around you,
Holding tightly,
Your lips I kiss,
Pulling this body of mine,
Into you,
My skin,
Touching and teasing your outward soul,
Investigating offers,
Reaching deeply,
Into you,
Following blindly,
Your direction and subtle gestures,
To the finality of end.

I wonder how much
A barrel of blood,

Costs in dollars...

I want to write about her,
But she lives in other dimensions,
Beyond what I perceive,
She soars high above this plane,
Searching for prey to feed upon,
Occasionally,
She swoops down,
When voracious hunger demands,
To find sustenance in bewildered and beleaguered and lost lambs,
Bleating going unheard and unrecognized cries,
She carries them aloft,
Like the lammergeir,
Dropping their bones,
On the rocks below,
To crack and expose the marrow,
Of which she sustains herself,
A devil indeed from above,
Yet for her flight,
I am envious,
And willingly give into night.