by Gideon Burton
Like hard and earthy red ceramic, kilned
by desert suns and desert afternoons,
whose cracking surfaces by hours milled
to blunted blocks and scraps of gibbous moons--
so lies the soiled, ungraced remains of some
whose souls are sold to anger's strong embrace.
So red, so hard, so heated by the sun
yet never to be questioned or replaced,
content to beat, again, this stubbing place,
until all moistened hopes are dried to clay
or salty alkaline no mist would taste.
So bakes the land, and so the hours prey.
The dirt that itches in these muddy pores
has too long festered; still, they ask for more.
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - Ian Boyd