Those Who Came Before

my father, ancestor, 
I didn’t ask you for 
these trophies of your 

In the distant 
river, I caught 
those city-skeletons
in netted caravans;

I ran and cowered 
Away into the mountain’s 
berry vines; 

I heard your 
wither wind coming, 
so cold and eager 
to tell your children 
What the bones 

Leave Feedback:

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

error: Content is protected !!
Scroll to Top