Come Crawling

In this desert home, let out a primal cry

loose a low boiling moan that comes not from rotting-leaf-lungs

But rather an injured animal, and alone await the surge of another raking ache.

There, in a valley, caverns stifle your moans. Lock-kneed, kneel in that shadow-cast glade.

Dew-dappled; dying flowers knot in fraying hair.

There in this alcove, the waves splash against an unyielding shore

obscured from sun, and shielded by stone.

To wallow would be a paradise, for to be alone is to slide,

willingly, into the embrace of the cold.

Whisper into an ebony sea and hear the secrets of those things which lurk in the sulcus of the mind.

Here behind the bridge-way -they’ve undone the latch- the creatures of that darkened cave did come crawling from an ever darker crux between evening and night calling out to un-cauterized sores these many-legged critters came to feed and reopen my wounds; stole up arms, climbing scars and bruises

to alight on acrid lips and find solace on their trek to tumescent tongues.

But lie still: For a full and rotting tree has fallen in our cove

and split the wobegon swollen self in two.