Lixte Se Leoma Ofer Landa Fela

Wind pushes leaves like dead literature
across hard november earth
watches the light fail
watches water on the table
evaporate like language. The radio
said they'd been tortured and then
hung by the feet until dead. Tiny
birds pick tersely at the bones of
winter trees. First fine flakes
pass through empty limbs. Imagine
primitive man crouching at the
mouth of his cave
cold and frightened
scratching in frozen dirt.
Only there are no words.
Into darkness without words.

In the ache of morning
the dull pain of coffee and knowing
he watches gravestones emerge
dark against the far hillside
silent and irregular
like bear come out
to kneel
in new snow.


Wendell Dryden