Whistling Lungs


Darkness layered on darkness.
The whistling of my lungs
in their nightly prayer. Each sense
tainted with the stain
of its own desire.

Whispers in the walls
when all falls silent;
doubt clings to the mind like mud
the first day of spring.

The sun drowns
and the raven chuckles
deep in her throat.

A little destruction
as the night pulls on
its marching boots. A little
gossip. The moths stir
in their waking dreams
to write it down.

From Distance From the Locus