deepundergroundpoetry.com

Visions Appalachia

This moldering threshold 'pon the hoof of my door
It slithers
Mutates
Spins into the face �
I recognize, �
Once a terra cotta,
�
The arrogance, your naked seedling �
In my sacred lips Virginia,
My flesh of Appalachia
Green, though your
longing hills
circling round, where deep
beneath me a watchful wolverine
in feverish decay, stays its guard
�
A light to force in fire,
A visceral tribulation.
Arms filled to the bone in blue
Every word a passionate cancer, �
Patiently pleads,
�
Save us our womb of constancy,
Our sage of sense and evergreen,
Allow us this natural deity �
bloomed from sister's cast;
three tiered in fate �
as days will crow
�
A prayer of warning as orbs form in earths's
sandy contemplation:
�
Dripping for our wounds �
are these ragged stairs,
The howl from door's descendant,
While we descend the moldering
indifferent.
�