Dennis Loney Lower Pastoral
Fasten the cables to my ears;
spark the fractured rocks, blood jumps
in time for those with sacred shears,
or pool in cheeks: an oral sump.
Open your mouth little goat,
the milk will heal your throat.
Transmuted since we met last time,
I’ve lost my field, my flock. The lights
that lined the path were thick with grime;
your love fell from confounding heights.
Hold my hand and dance about;
the earth is pocked with drought.
Vultures scraped the stripped rock face;
salmon carved the mud; rats seared
the land with their electric race
and I lay with those who briefly appeared.
This is how we decompose,
buried under a rose.