Song of the Invisible Corpse In the Field Poem by Gregory Orr
Song of the Invisible Corpse In the Field
And still I lie here,
bruised by rain, gored
by the tiny horns
of sprouting grass.
I hum the song of spiders
drawing, across the blankness
of my eyes, accurate maps
for the spirit's quest:
always death at the center
like Rome or some oasis
toward which all paths tend.
I am the absence
under your feet, the pit
that opens, toothed with dew.
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12/5/2025 7:56:27 PM # 1.0.0
