There was never so much mud —
morning an alarm of ebbing silence,
droning gestures wrapped
in soupy leaves, thick warbled
gray weighing down
limb-blooded trees.

And he had questions, green and blue
words ready to choke tongue and throat,
crush his shallow chest filled
with patient songs for the dead.

Where are our southern skies?
Where are courageous fields that
do not push from naked ground
as awkward skeletons?

The morning was a mouth of blood,
devoured by rain, a rib-torn dog,
senseless dragging of stones,
delft breath a war between sparrow
and crow, dogs lapping mud and rain.

Michael P. Ladanyi
 © Copyright, 2004

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