WHERE YOU LIVE
Your eye spots
a hungry tottering man
whose thumb is crushed
though he held out
part of his hand
as an offering
mostly in a futile manner
an audible voice pierces
from an unshaven landscape
even the trees avert him.
Even when Death inhabits a poem, he does not own it. He is a squatter. In fact, Death owns nothing. – Todd Moore
Your eye spots
a hungry tottering man
whose thumb is crushed
though he held out
part of his hand
as an offering
mostly in a futile manner
an audible voice pierces
from an unshaven landscape
even the trees avert him.