The black bear watches the tree, underneath the gods of thunder. The limbs of the earth start to shake, how afraid we were, the dark water between my fingers. You would have arrived as a child, to dress the fear, cold splintering in warm rooms. The house the father had built tones with mysterious power, the ghost dance was sick, vicious, yet alive. To govern anything, just empty space, no one could reach. The quickening of the central fire, two rivers flow against the sea, the dead in me must answer, I will not reappear in form. To confess, the anger that breaks the tree into leaves, as the fruit falls to the threshing floor. Its ripening is its ruin, as the balance is attained.
– Josh Fleming
Writing On The Backs Of Giants: Inspired by others, a word salad I have made, smothered in an obscure dressing, mixed with the lines syphoned off the pages. Words taken and rearranged from: The Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart, a poetry anthology.