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Churn
by Steven Schmidt
Bend to the moon, leave raw whispering sleep
to part in shadow time above May's farm
from froth and mist. Swim lightly, resting sharp.
Guide thousands, boil away from storm. Tight streams
cut slag, squirm through chained legs, and skewered wren.
Slant flesh, recall how fiddlers' languid flood
moaned out an iron flake of death in sun.
Cool music sweetly waters laurel-fed
winter: black diamond boughs and naked ring
road show gowned foresters each lovely shore
in soaring pictures hot with mantic skill.
White ache, rose purple void lick petals pink,
earth warm, sieved bones' love ripe and dreams reborn.
We follow, eating honey, drooling milk.