the herd

  
There are pockets behind your eyes where sorrow swings until the wine is drunk, until silence wakes you to the accumulation of dreams you’ve been sleeping through 

rushes like a herd of cattle – how long has it been since you practiced singing to them – bottomed out by the echo of their hooves from the other end of that sterile plain 

no breastbone to hide behind so reach deep into those pockets where everything you witness but never feel goes 

to wait, to rescue you.