a poem
In the fallow mire
A beastly toad choir
Heckles sheep keepers
There is one for each lamb
Like there is a watcher
For every sleeper
As you wade through the veils of the valley
There is a hand on the forehead that stops fever
A finger on the light switch that startles you into being
A figure in a chair, perhaps miles away
That keeps the breath even
And in the fallow mire
The beastly choir holds a false note
When a foot stretches into the cold morning air
And clenches into a fist