Wrath
You sleep beneath a bivouac
with nothing else
but tins of beans and worms
of words like carbon, like
dioxide, sank into the
bracken, listening for
the woken Kraken on your
not-yet-broken back.
From somewhere near the
cerebellum, ghosts of choirs
of fallen states sing
resurrection vigils while
the wind spins mountains
round the bend of history, till
your fears of futures unknown
sink into the soil.
You call across another
valley where was lost
a plan for boundaries, where
was found a sound to dull
the shock explosion of
aeonian progress, locked
and loaded in the flow of
freedom and its will.
The right side of the loch is
lapped in blood red swarms
of agitating midges,
darkening flint and tints
of tingling scree – and now,
you cannot rest to send
a message of remembrance to
the enraged expanse.
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