Blank Black Print

just this morning

the bodies unearthed,
tallied like
stacked wood

I've seen
the blank black
print,
etched
in undertows


the color of blood
is your new home

You are the good
the do ing
of good

While
my saddle sits at home

my heat snatched up
fled and lifted
into the itch of a jungle

Or the vast binding
of some open plain

The break of me, look

So that
beyond communications
and slender
future
we might talk a while

Squirming through months
I'll watch the columns

Those whispers of genocides
and wonder