9.2.18
Sep 2, 2018 · 1 min read

We rise in the cold before dawn
bones creaking awake in the dark
we bags of flesh hung on knotted wire
uncurl and uncoil coquettish,
moaning through blue lips a lament
for the morning, the new day.
loose bellies sliding to the sheets,
we are grotesque, gray
in the first slivers of morning
to break the horizon-
As night-corpses rising
From the loam.
