Fragment (no. 131-2) Eliot C.

  Fragment (no. 131-2)

Gulls scavenging

            on tumbled cliffs

                        of dirty snow,

where I’m stricken

            by the barren branches

                        sticking up like bones

                                    across the highway,

desolate as a plain

            where the sun strikes not

                                                the ground,

desolate as the air,

            winding with waves,

                        desolate as the stillness

      in my soul,

A sky I came apon

where once your hands,

      draped in a linen cloth,

                   held ash and myrrh,

      above this barren ground  

the lack of reflection

            and my determination

       are like black holes that twist,

                  winding shadows of the dead

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