Poetry Published April 15, 2011

death will cling to me like frost like the bracken
tick to the skin in high summer I will not smell it
but it will walk with me no love will dissolve it
they will go stonelike will spring back one of them is coming
one of the killers get beneath the rocks behind the thorns
get under the hedges be still do you smell it
one of them is coming he brings the shadow press your body
flat in the hollow press your ears to your back still your wings pray
that he passes

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