IX: Landscapes#
Oh, hapless world, the butcher’s block,
The sickle, scythe, harpoon,
The barren fields, the culled livestock,
The blood red harvest moon.
The ocean deep, a darkened heart,
A sore that festers cold,
A slumbered age, a violent art,
Into all things behold:
The forests wild, the stalking hunt,
The arrow cut from stone,
The bloody rib, the final grunt,
A death in whimpered groan.
The mountain peaks, a falling height,
The air in sky dissolved,
A winter wind, a bitter blight,
Let no sin be absolved.
The city streets, the graveyard paths,
The linen beds of wards,
The gowns of white, the final baths,
The oak in coffin boards.
April 2025
Date |
Publication |
Status |
|---|---|---|
April 7, 2025 |
Paris Review |
Pending |
April 7, 2025 |
The New Yorker |
Pending |
May 10, 2025 |
North Appalachia Review |
Pending |
June 4, 2025 |
Swan Scyth Press |
Pending |