Hunger

The Long Years, Part V

Stone-ground years
Dust the smell of grandfathers
and their clocks.

Each fractured knuckle
never-quite-healed-right,
weather predicting,
clawed, slowly constricting,
smells like a wet stone
in a fresh desert
where only age and
rock trees forgive.
Each tendon under
sun-spotted and stretched
paper-thin skin which
slides has brushed tears
and hammered nails,
has crushed blows and
shaken with visceral
loss, has been held, taken
given, seen,
caused and received
all things.
Nails that have clawed lovers’
Sweaty backs on summer
afternoons which
never die, though
lovers always do

Point,
And shake the dust.
Shudder,
and feel the long
years creep.

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This entry was published on December 30, 2012 at 19:10 and is filed under Poetry, The Long Years. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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