Your words

I dropped them for sparrows, let them squabble
over their husks, peck them from gravel.

I let the sun bleach them bonewhite,
desiccate their flesh, shrivel roots.

I turned away while brambles razorwired,
shredded and choked their promise, snared.

I’ll make good with a swinging adze, my spade,
this scythe. Next time, I’ll give you ground.


• This poem first appeared in Raum #3