What’s Bred in the Bone


Red and hard, the borders
of this book, this handhold
on the sane. Blue and dark
with spindrift clouds
the evening crowds in
riding earth’s back.

Witchclock, broomhandle
to the moon, spavined nag
counts no time. Blood, blue
and red, pulsing beneath
the watchfires of flesh.

Between the texts of dream
moonflowers and madness.