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/Black Oil My heart is a bitter chock of wood Cramped and alone, it shrinks — under my bones — like bread left in the cupboard And every night my heart drinks the milk of death, hears moans of solitude as if all the wolves of earth howled, like rags of misery and their eyes are full of desolate photos of hungry women, of old people bent like stalks, of children as thin as sticks. It never finds a corner to hide in. So the poor, quaking heart grows quiet, listening to the cries of shipwrecks from all the bays, twisting in its anguish, impotent and forsaken. If you come, in the middle of a night, you will find it cut down in its prime like a dead old man at the foot of his horse.
Donald Wellman | Mudlark No. 34 |