Black foam, our drinking bread,
Walk troubled, we do, hearts sloshing
In tighter and tighter chests. Bray, bark,
a howling of directions and orders--
too many open mouths, too much
of the whip. When will we be released?
They say well past midnight, beyond the sleep of masses, ghosts above the garden
eating weeds.
We cannot touch.
Nov 21, 2019
Nov 21, 2019 at 2:07 AM UTC
Black foam, our drinking bread,
Walk troubled, we do, hearts sloshing
In tighter and tighter chests. Bray, bark,
a howling of directions and orders--
too many open mouths, too much
of the whip. When will we be released?
They say well past midnight, beyond the sleep of masses, ghosts above the garden
eating weeds.
We cannot touch.
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