Against the rubber tongues of cows and the hoeing hands of men
Thistles spike the summer air Or crackle open under a blue-black
pressure.
Every one a revengeful burst Of resurrection, a grasped fistful Of splintered weapons and Icelandic frost thrust up
They are like pale hair and the gutturals of dialects.
Every one manages a plume of blood.
Mown down, it is a feud. Their sons appear,
Stiff with weapons, fighting back over the same ground.
deliriouslove1970. The life & times of Gary and Denise Flanders. (Free and worth every penny. If you would like to compliment the editor, send to garytheflan@deliriouslove1970.com. If you would like to complain, call your mother.) 
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