Field Of Death
we make love
in a small room
underneath a tin roof...
your body praying for rain.
or perhaps it's just delusion,
or memory twisted by passion,
or what an old man settles for
in the echo of his life!
kissing's like undressing,
slowly turns the spit,
not conscious of mirrors
or the need to hurry....
soft words almost forgotten
fall like stones in a bottomless well...
and the only cry of passion
is the hawk circling
the field of death!
Eric Cockrell's Other Poems
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