Wind hisses at the copse and illustrates
the severed gashes ripped into its flank.
Wind complains and raises the hackles
of the vines. Earth is peaty, rich and dank.

Wind hisses. At the copse, we take stock

of several scratches spat by feline sprig
and thorn. Complaining, heckled, rock-
weary, squatting in the peat, we swig

wine pissed from the corpse of the bog.
Seven curses spit out in quick succession.
Thorny, speckled, our words pierce the fog
of dusk, a bleary fretting beat, procession

of fine kisses from dog corporals. Which
cur refused to stick to maps and cost
us well-worn rest? Wind hisses, that bitch;
we’re circling, dead on our feet. We’re lost.

 

 

This is a Finalist of Cha's "Void" Poetry Contest. Read a description of the poem by Hao Guang Tse here. [Read Daryl Yam's commentary on this poem.] [Return to the "Void" section.]