horn donkey

tit-milk,
in a blue cup,
casts a long shadow down,
down over the sound of a hill-knob sundays.

For do we not emerge from the grasses,
the plains,
the soft clay of the earth,
and the stones of plenty?

I have seen them,
the ones hidden behind the white door,
and locked deep within a
cavern,
they are smooth,
soft,
bald,
bad,
sad men.