#1983 - the outvast

 

1983 

6.157

6.vi.25

the outvast  

a telling

 

enemy of generations

picture inward of the eye

 

truth finding us

here by custom

 

in a dark house

twig smoke, ice wind, tight

 

a long dark, dismal

thralls tend at the animal end

 

lit with this, days we let in

there’s colour of the storm upstairs

 

hands cramped at the craft

a land of few words, far between

 

this to which none belong

to be here’s to be gone

 

among the after walkers

they who’ve dreamt us

 

land alive with the dead

with winter dark of what fire

 

the old murders now nearest the heart

this way was of our coming        

 

out there the burial in sunshine

what will be a door too heavy to lift