not just the ear but the entire mass
responds to the periodic screams
latent in certain words and letters.
night breaks into tiny glass pieces
on the turf- dewdrops in its bones,
and hapless stars burn into ashes.
my hands never reach right down
to the guarded secrets, binding though,
plough the drift of the wet leaves.
round eyes hung in utter shame
people care for the deadly weapons,
to escape from the sickening roots.
silence resists the surge of inner life
smelling in dreary and buried memories,
harvesting on loose soils and red earth.