The Edge of Poetics

In the silence you can hear

a strange sucking sound

like thunder. When the wind

blows  in your direction

you can see them

huddled in open fields

waiting to be taken.

Bodies caked

with dried mud,

rubbing harmonically,

they stand like stalagmites

made of decayed deposits

and layers of licked

salt. Heat lightening

in the distance

flicks across their foreheads,

where the absence of eye

lashes and hair follicles

creates tattoos of distant

skylines, where prophets

gaze upon them —

open eyes and mouths —

each tongue balanced

on the edge of poetics

meant for an unborn god,

on a frozen canvas

draped in darkness.