Yaw
Biting into stiff quiet;

solitude
a callous soliloquy to the
kiss bursting from
the mouths of babes.

The silica of your teeth;
of your vocalization;
of your bones atop
my bones

and the wounded
women stand in
the yards, pointing:

saying:

this
all
is
harsher
weather
than in our own

harsh
youths
-

and the elms
arch upward
like spires; palms
hold palms, sing
songs until
they become
psalms

and the men
in the fields can
hear their rataplan,
sojourning to their
firesides to lay
with their women
and build their coffins,

daughters fall in love
with sons;

biting into the stiff
quiet of the morning
when the world is
nothing but grey, and
everything that they say
sounds delicate and
precise, though

you cannot help
but ignore their
chanting evermore,
alone as you are
with nothing but your
hunger gnawing at the
otherwise empty
stillness.