the forest or forest preserve Nick Peter Prasser
April Nett, Sophisticated Ruin, mixed media
n
Thighs tangled mimicking me grass stems bend under back stab, crumble, and pop, the sinew strands locking talons to carcass, hung in the crotch of an alder the disjointed wing swings wildly in the breeze: ripping pulpy handfuls of heartwood that run dank water over the hands to crawl inside the cavern over spiders and centipedes cold earth inside roots popping in the wind cathedral like spikes moan I stumbled here singing a few songs in raspy voice. Running through meadow dilapidated hedge and refuse, even though soft veins of white gravel flow.
Literature
5 poetry.indd 5
11/20/07 3:45:07 PM