Painting by Antonio Puri
August
Ass over elbows, falling
into death, all of us.
Banging our knees
against the narrow strip between sky
and pavement. So dry,
the angels riding down
for us, their horses throw sparks, endanger
hundreds of acres. Same, with the Blood,
could save us, could also carry HIV, nails could lead
to infection, bacteria resistant
to antibiotics. Its the cows
did us in. Placid and swollen.
We put their blood into us—their bodies,
milk for our bones, their moos into our mouths.
CL Bledsoe
Posted over on Hamilton Stone
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