The Wheel That Turns Immortal

the wheel that turns immortal

son of he; sisters clone of myth and matador.

at ease the king and country to the voice

where no voice is, no common hand untangles

intestines from the bladder of the eye;

loves hanging hips too heavy on the arm

twists as shell through fog and spawn

crab-apple man on the turning tide

sinks Bismarck mind a dream of yesteryear

as near as dam and dusted to a shine;

how bright the sails hung naked to the skin

grieved as ants, their mothers of the sky

flew hind-leg beak through the skull less wind

in search of land for the turning worm;

where hears our soldiers cries;

life's horn that grunts and groans on no-mans-land

last post to salt and earth for the beggars wounds;

here lies the broken man, alone.

neither flesh nor bone

breathing paler than the ale that bleeds the eye;

with wheels that turn immortal;

a sectioned man in the doorway of a street;

loves hanging hips too heavy on the arm;