MANUAL LABORS

 

 

Joshua Marie Wilkinson

With its noise tarried out – loosed from its
leaf – an edge smeared what the moon
thwarts in us, cordons us off from,
scurvy in no alms, no memorial for
the carriers of the dead, the dead
carrion too. Another eve to gown
down into the rifle retreat—so fall
back, so underlings abound, goes until
that green dusk shear & a blues in
the mail & the song spleens us,
so carrier wave & disappearing
into the quicksands—The root
jungle stunned lark, swallow, butcher
laugh, butcher the laugh back, so
sorry to let the forgetting take you out