Saturday, March 21, 2015

The Kingdom

A wet, trembling glove
on the end of a pole
eased into the gap.

Limp fingers stroke
the damp pile of fur inside.
A stick to prod, a rag to sop

and something for the jaws
to clamp down on.

Keep breathing through
the nostrils keep pawing
at the hard clay.

The frayed end of a rope
dangling from a hook
driven deep into the trunk
of a fallen tree.

The dry stalks of the field
bow to their king,
an empty length of concrete pipe
forgotten in a culvert.

They await his orders,
the sound of the wind
roaring through

his royal throat.

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