to the two Ws-Walt and Wallace
they sing the lyric of the lower man
as black-tongued chows they bark
primordial words like familial hounds
their harried language howls to the languid
lovers of the lower level and like
puritans in their log cabins they pray
for the patriarch's provision of profit
owls observe their shadowed orbs
beneath the New England woods
and doves huddle in their hutch
cooing to the sweet squabs
that squeak tomorrow's sun
their fresh feathers fray
throughout the night's somber
embrace and the moon's frigid light
at dawn a pigeon carries a message
to the sun-knitted in angelic sun-threads
the primal word images god
through the lower ones
and incarnates the quotidian
on parchment
receiving the message on winged tongues
the pilgrims pray for transcendence
but the elect find their wealth
in the moldering soil of the worms
the worms wiggle on hooks of desire
the chow tongues once blackened catch fire
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1 comment:
You always have such perfect alliteration within your pieces and none is forced, which is what I like about how you write.
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