Birthplace of Horn


By Richard King Perkins II*

Wicked traveler,
egocentric window,

leave your body stretched
across another’s soul

bound in the red twine of sin.

You won’t speak your regret

or trust the urgency of seasons
lashed to the world by a stem.

Polished glass is jealous
of all that came before

aspects never seen but imagined
brothers of earthy comfort

speaking directly to your birthplace
of horn.

The tearing of innards begins
on the way to snow-capped islands

where the weeping burns
long before its heritage ends—

In all your lands of belief
infinitesimal globs of divinity

escape with every uttered word.



*Richard King Perkins II is a three-time Pushcart nominee and a Best of the Net nominee whose work has appeared in more than a thousand publications. He lives in Crystal Lake, IL.


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