Poem: Night Valley

 

Night Valley

 

in these sunken switchbacks,

a sandsoil of ghostflesh,

graveyard of prolific roots,

a corpse sheds rigor mortis

more easily than it seeks justice;

and my headlamp stutters,

much smaller than the obscurant stars,

the warmth of its meek bulb

so much less than their leastest heat.

i tilt beneath a horned moon,

ghost of an auroch,

who lists where her last flesh

tangled in wolves of clouds--

vultured now by oak branches,

groped.

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4/6/ 24 ... more edits

1/29/24

1/4/24 ... lots of mods for streamlining, general improvement in the magic

10/5 ... added a verb for clarity ... added a stanza break

abused as a child