tanner brockwell

trampling
by tanner brockwell
trampling
stampeded hooves
pounding the gulch
where is the rain
with so much thunder
near the coursing
the current
falling for danger flows
don’t dare don’t
every hand watches
the rampaging brands
a scar a stamp that fiery
dark beneath the sheltering sky
that would not open with relief
the dust rise choking
till these currents mix
of flesh and dust and a deadly rush
that pulsing is cacophonous
and dizzy [...]

to the departed
by tanner brockwell
to the departed
where with the cold winds
the night has become
some monument
and the sky lowering
in the blank dark fretful
too close surrounded and far
into the imaginings
that fill some deep need
or away bouncing the sent
round glass stopped with wax
a small note written on yellow paper
only enough space to write out
be free