Talent
Sifting dust with my soul
proffered forth in cupped hands
Threads of blood and thick gray dust
chips of bone and sweat
and rust
Sodden mud; the tears of anger
sterile
fall through clutching hands
Bitter salt in soul`s revealing
dryness freed and yet undone
Turn away in foul loathing.
Thin and cold and dead and done.
1985
____________
Well that was a cheery year.
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