Long fields of gifts in the graveyard
like kisses for animals running through the streets
The mudgods surround the trees
and recall the taste of the pretty boys’ lips
The night is broken into little pieces
but it still looks good in the morning
and lives abandoned in the dumb mouth
of the centuries dreamt by the muses

The branches are greedy for contraband
and the hymnal’s pages soak in the damp
ripped nude in the middle of the woods
a patchwork of the holy and the industrial
Two big drums sound over the pond
A pile of newspapers readies the alphabet
to move into the chapel of the prison
The black sun is caught in the gift of flame

Burn down the twisted willows
Burn down the benches set up for prayer
at the view of the only mountain
Crows fly off to remember the buried
at the sight of the distant snow

Tim Kahl
03 16 17