Poet fell down? Second poem from Patrick Woodock

from: You can't bury them all (ECW Press, 2016)

I fell down in front of an Assyrian relief while climbing a mountain
by Patrick Woodcock

One shattered arm, enmossed and lean,
ends at the earth and bleeds on stones.
A darkened spider raised for shade,
his other holds.

Some drink below on crates and cars
and watch his chest expand, unfold.
As he coughs salt-shakered songs
his throat implodes.

He cannot turn and leave them now,
his audience of Kurds and Kings.
He falls in farce and cigarettes
to sit within the sunset’s gleam.

© Patrick Woodcock