They spy at windows,
pound open the door.
Poems are mistaken for sorcery,
intuition as heathen.
There is trial, ordeal by water;
evidently, I float.
I bob the surface,
fetal against frothy black.
Wicker is made to order,
waist-high nest with a stake.
They march around me,
army of preoccupied sheep.
Have you any wool?
I decline the blindfold.
Then comes smoke,
my eyes like a startled horse.
my eyes like a startled horse.
tk/October 2014
A masterful read by R.A.D. Stainforth...
