Wildings.

At the beginning of the wild rumpus

I made the sounds;
heavy on the drumbeats
suitable for monsters
suitable for mothers of sons
released into the wild.

Things of rage, intemperate, frantic
for a target; escaped from cultivation

to an undomesticated landscape

seeking nothing in particular,

and the world in general.

Laid at their feet,
a hot bowl of chicken soup;
prepared for kings
by those who love them best of all.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s