top of page
  • carlyand2

Diary of One Who Lost

I imagine it to be calf-skin

with horse-hair stragglers

like the sparse trimmings

of a reshaped beard.

I see bowed out splatters

of slow green river water,

the grease from a plate

of meat and beans.

I taste dark coffee--

the earth in a cup

and inside shoes

and between every subtle

ridge in a thumb pad.

I feel a father’s hand on

the hilt of a sword that rattles

a little when the warm-bloods

come through the humming heat

and the cry of retreat, retreat,

is not enough to stymie

the flow of blood

that stains the sun-grass red.

It is always the boys who pay

and thus it will always be.


Recent Posts

See All


bottom of page