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--- J O S H U A   M C K I N N E Y

Compassed by was
A voice, unstill, and
Of it. The wind is shrill
By sutures. Healed
Into a tomb tight-sealed
The edge is read, and red
It will not end. One bone
Shard in the hand
Ing place. It glides!
Of slate that broke
A note that gone

the lion's mouth is kind
then high up the heart
the wound beset
the sound of futures winds
but torn apart
as real can get--
in a field      one
expands to lend a start-
it skates      the body     text
makes pain

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