By David Bankson
Tell of darkness in a coal miner’s heart,
balsam fir sapling surrounded by ancestors,
all the hearts of man expelling words
of warning. Say the house’s roof
is a den of illicit activity. Invoke
empty stone wells & death masks,
cracked teeth, a sunset stained with wine.
As another night ruptures in the throat,
scream the primal truth–though stories
are honey, let us grasp the barbed wire tonight.
