From Essex

Now is the time to take the song from your throat

and unbury the bone you've tasted for years. The flesh

of bones is that which unburdens the voice, the flesh

that feeds from the unspoken words in your throat

urging you not to pocket the flowers. Plunder

the scream of shades. Take the swarm of color

from the fields until the lack of color

forms a rupture in the sky and plunder

all unheard sounds in the night. These sounds

are yours. Your mind holds the morning back.

This voice whispers each word back

to you and each stone you gather slows sound

and light. The bleached day urges you on and the throat

of the lapwing burns blakc with still no sound.


-Adam Clay