We have killed to have ourselves go on, white egos in envelopes, a teeming sack of spider eggs nourished to bursting. We go on at the ripe edge of death, the rich slit 5 in the Nazi's side, or evil VC opened up who could not duck the waver of bullets that pass too near and are not named home or religion or spouse-- each ready to penetrate and save, to transfigure the flesh 10 like a monarch exploding its green chrysalis. At the focusless eye of my window, boundlessly blue from the outside in, in the catbird's nest awash with grief still lies near the murder, in eggy resins, still lies 15 a bluejay's egg unhatched, still unhatched.
From the collection "Red Bank"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.