Morning And Evening Death
I woke up this morning feeling stale, and it was evening,
found feathers of a bloody swallow tickling my windowsill,
I slept this evening feeling ripe, and it was morning,
feathers absconded, no arduous swallow to sing,
nor to peck at my icy heart.
Have I grown, Good Lord, with only death on my mind?
No wonder I feel sleepy to think of heaven -
its graceful angels crying for I am bitter,
and its generous growth of wildlife
swapping my empty soul for tender meat.
My skin is not thick enough to satisfy -
saintly animals, I just want my swallow and I
to be savoured as peaceful helpers
to Eden's milieu, I can
if I want
be restless...
Richard Thomas
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