Sacral Bone

Knuckles,

Shrouded in paring skin,

Sun bathed

In the bloody dawn dew 

The crops are red.

Over the hill, the air is heavy with the heat and hope of thousands. A foreign sun glazes the bones in their backs, baptising their bodies. Come and join the masses.

Little boy,

This is no place for

Little boys.

Nearby a ditch, an olive tree bends and snaps like bone. At the end of day, after the cleansing of rain, a dove returns to feed a worm to its young.

Fat doves,

Cultivated by dead worms,

They eat

No insides or outsides

Are left behind.