Interrogative Moaning (poem)

In the October woods,
the stones bleed and wheeze

like hardened lungs.
Listen—you can almost hear

the echoes of summer derechos
singing rustic hymns  

in the rusting hills.
I’ll tell you what I dreamed:  

sap of sugarmaples,
the fiery smell of lightning. 

And in the woods,
there wandered shadows,  

blind to each other,
both calling out  

for their hearts to return.
They had rambled long   

and wild through
darktruth and whitelie,  

their footfalls bereft
among the windy conifers  

and pinecones droppings around them 
like broken crow eggs.  

A cloud ate the moon
like a wave swallowing a house,  

and the shadows were gone.
Only their voices remained,  

blending with each other,
the wild emptiness, the wind.


Thanks to the editors at Lamplit Underground for including this in Volume 3.

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