shaggoth
gruff hung the thin wicker from his throat.
embroidered with veins this veil would descend
in the meager prayer of bluff,
as he perceived the clumsy lope of time
through onyx eyepearls…
he would find the coldest breath of stones
to touch his clover swollen underbelly,
to fill his dim ancestral sense –
so slow would be his words
if words were breath, yet he was
without a voice to soothe
the hard scaled turquoise cheek…
how often he would pause in thought…
the early dawn dully hung dinosaur swamp
with a sun that sees the saurian stealin’
through the reeds…
sleep easy little one
in the soil that sings
your song unto the earth…
*lynchburg, virginia spring 1972*
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