Wringing Hands Poem by James McLain

Pushing, pulling, drowning in the ringing in his ears.
Drawn in pent up breath is slow released.
Dragon flies the wet green grass the smell of it.
Brushing past the dry brown moss the puffed up eye.
Hanging from the lower branch her panties torn.
Blowing through my hair the wind released.
Inside the hay I play the harp at night.
Stars shine down upon her face it's bright.
The moon is full and round the fight she fights is right.