The Fieldstone Review


There is no poetry left
out here,
no last words,
only strange sucking stanzas
strung among the willow branch.

No leaps of faith.
Gargoyles cackling
among porch lamps,
dilapidated bridges,
storm-strung houses.

Up here, feathers splayed,
eyes bee-stinged
by wind.

Up here on the cliff face
hands sunk deep into uterine pockets,
lichen moss braced on cold granite.

I study the last fundamental liturgy
of the land
and the crumbling scaffolding of an autumn sky
piling up like cordwood
against the landwash.