at the ford/

©2021 Michael Raven

lacuna
the dark soul space
a night sit silence
filled with bruises
blood-red wine
and broken
stem glasses crystal

[the hum of the freeway traffic
a mile or so away
carried by the humidity]

these cuts are mine
washed in water
with the stream rags
cailleach in her
cackles craving
points her bone and
a'scrying
predicts the time of...

2 thoughts on “at the ford/

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