Storm Sheep
Let it come. Let it come when it it will.
Let it take me up soft, as a sleeping bird
caught on the wing, startled round the fire's lick
to catch again the frozen cold of flight.
For out beyond the angle of your hips,
when the part of me passes, as the passing sky,
or in beyond the shallow lips
when in the truth of earth we lie.
Not I, not I, the changing moor
dipped brown by rain, the corry's maw
one spindled tooth of whithered Elm
retained to bite at dodgeful cloud again.
Not I; that single emerald glinting fly,
on wind picked game, more fat than meat,
we bloat, we swell, then roll apart
until against all sight; a single leg extends.
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