Glass Poetry Press

Volume Two Issue One

David McLean

the rocks on the hill

the rocks on the hill seem to be a cemetery that could carry an infinity of deaths eternal; up to where no heaven is, just their cold embrace under this winter sun that warms nothing, just rocks cupped to take our graceless leavings. yet still they live in a bloody loam woven on the loom of the flesh, the soil beaten together from remaindered beasts, all the beaten hearts than have blackened to truth there, given us their meaty reasons and been feed for trees, greening all these leaves eaten by tomorrows since yesterdays that the beasts lived as one eternal finite day, limited by the skin and the shadows under trees where love sleeps, cuddling death asleep — something all our children seemed to be, better because more stupid than you and me who never dreamed; we are just wintering here a minute, and, come spring and tomorrow, we hope to be dead forever; meat for the graceful ungracious trees, not souls at all, just a morsel to eat