Ode for the Stranger


Holy fire come light my bones

with words that wound

and strong sound

and lowings lifted like cattle-moans.


Open skies decry the rain

that settles in

soft as sin

to burst and bud in flowering pain.


Past the churning sightless brook

lies that fell down

nested town

like a blighted nameless crook.


In tattered rags my lover lies

a sight made sore

my eyes pour

and something flickering in me dies.


No craven shadow will I hold

nor pantomime

tainted time

with brazen bonnets clutching cold.


Grow strange this night averse and cool

that now at last

new found past

leads this faithful following fool.













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