Birdclaw

Listen

the storm,

the dead beehive,

sea a grey flag

torn out behind

red-slime cliffs,

trees drip

fat like

hanged pigs,

wet 

blister packets-

eight long years of knives on flesh,

arm hairs erect,

 hard red skin

carved up like pork

with crackling

Dirty water pools in the dark tarpaulin
I know what I look like.

Clutch floor

Birdclaw
Eight more-
Eight more-