Warren Falcon (04/23/52 - xxxx / Spartanburg, South Carolina, USA)

That this old ground yields to plow stuns.

What begins to be, earth swell, breaks
root-room open to blood means.

Old skeins tear upon what is new terrain,
hunger worn, long appended. There is
no blame for pain is the blessing.

All hurt now stings twilight quaked into being.
Your breath falls upon me now, taut, sinew,
bruising hand, purple inside flares warrior nerves
to unknotting surprise.

I am uncovered, thin, bared upon thinner sheets the man-
ripped to many images, torn into, landscaped to former curves.
No longer do I grieve enclosure, touching only myself,
delivered from layers.

Magpie dances.
Lines, veins, strung between Pole Star
and First River Mouth, an embedded ruin uncovered in milk floods.
Touch gently first what has been too long concealed.

Hard touch congeals once was telling mud remolded into
'Not again. Not yet the bleeding Centurion.'
Wield roughly then through gates too long shut.

When I cry out, do not mind. Blindly ram. Do not stop.

Magpie, my keeper, is flying.