Hounds howling in the veins, not delicate
Like infant leaves green tattoos,
A finite green of order and plenty,
But violently carved by the sword of life.
The runes upon the soul
These sounding veins,
Raw channels cut by the torrent of
Floods to the heartsea.
These the bearers seem too slight
Tho they cut through flesh to bone,
Too slight for the weight they carry.
Out in the darkness animal eyes are alight.
Animal words sound beyond the line of sight,
like locust voices burring the high summer
under clouds like wounds in the sky.
The heart, the nerves
Regenerate the whole,
Only quaking in the dusk for sign
For folly, for escape from time.
Posted for Friday Poetically at the inimitable OneStopPoetry
Brian's prompt today was to post something written before the Age of One Stop. I hope 1986 is far enough back.