--- 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

begets