Poultices

The clashing of earth of which we consist
under the thrumming, hot hum
of the winds in the mist.

Children of men, and women, of course;
a melting pot of mulch
shakes against a divorce.

The moisture which gathers, well wept,
perspired and bled and well dated
out of woodland, slow crept.

We’re a mass, a gaius of a sound
that moves to the walls
exponential; pound on pound.