Mahpiua Luta stands. Red Cloud stands. He combs
the breeze. It is the right word he wants. He would
use millions if he knew it. Or multitudes. “Locusts,”
he finally says. “They are like locusts.”
—Bernard Pomerance, We Need to Dream All This Again
prior to the one God
Others so positioned
their bright rein spanning
disaster to disaster
where between
all hail eternal majesty
:::
planting the flag
in new domains
a virus kneels to prey
of world and wonders
many will not know
when this one is subdued
:::
knot of words unsounding
when a language lost
loses its mind
referents laying down arms
in beds of sticks
faint service found in other tongues
Bio: Daryl Scroggins
