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Poetry
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| Lumber | |
| By ailbhe | ||||||
| 27 April 2005 | ||||||
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Lumber My body is dead and you will not mourn it. Your touch wakes me, breath sways me, I am your golem. You will not leave me alone. . You come to me at my wake and bid me toast my own health. You come as a bird, as a flame, as a flame in a bush. It is fuschia the dancer . but I will not dance. I am a golem: I lumber. My flesh is not sweet. I taste of graveyard clay mixed with your spit.
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