Old burning-bones, my father, died the death of a thousand wives on a bed of rosy thorns. His spirit now in tattered trousers soars above the branches where the wind is wet and snow forms soft ruffs around the neck. His body was consigned to licking flames that turned him into wind-blown ash and soot to fill tall chimneys and obscure the view, through crystal panes, of flowers that nod their heads and wisely smile at all male antics and their foolish strife. Old Burning-Bones by Michael Bullock
Posted on: Thu, 05 Jun 2014 09:26:45 +0000
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