Youths

Then barb arced
to heel: he fell,

turned his eyes
to the epic

skies of the shield,
the first screen,

and first saw—
final sight—

the flawed swath,
far, of the false

winged boy's
descent, sun-scythed

into the sea-furrows.
Blood-noise,

blackness now
waxing in his skull.

Now stilled
his fathers' names

rise from him.

Copyright © 2010 Michael Rutherglen All rights reserved
from Ninth Letter
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission