The empty hollow he persists to be;
and squandered things…
       Squandering things – 
wind through such a cavity of metal,
howling and crying for home.

Tides and leaves, tides and leaves,
north and eastwards blowing.
Sowing seeds the old man heaves 
his legs from earth to earth.
With every breath he bends his back,
and bows to tides and leaves.

Cracks the thunder and the dawn
as sky would sunder and fall upon
the wind in the hollow of his bones.


Behemoth’s love was surreptitious,
kept to litanies and wondered things.
       Wandering things 
like shades and winds
following the evening clouds back home.


Cries and heaves, heaving breaths,
obeisance to the storm.
A face as lined as fractured ground
affords a trench for heaven’s tears. 

Cracks the thunder, calls the crow,
in heralding their plunder.

Behemoth’s heartache dies alone,
on fractured earth
       and under.



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