Poem

THE OLD RACE

Aboard the shipwreck,
We wear moist wings of bandit geese.
Blue shrapnel bones exit our dusty breath.
There is nothing here.
This is a candle.

Marinating the furnace,
We torture a widowed owl.
Wicker smiles sacrifice our agony for rust.
There is something here.
This is a rodeo.

Objects unwrap themselves
To navigate mammal shadows.
Mute gifts banish themselves
To swap thirst for melancholy sod.

A greedy urinal of holograms
Eats its wife raw.
And with wrinkles like a coffin lid,
My hands rinse a child's finite scalp.
My race
Swarms the unsung drought

Frozen in chunks of water
Flowing apart from the frozen chunks of river.