This is another new poem by Jason. Jason is currently attending a new Poetry Workshop with Denver Butson, which he says is small enough for individual attention. - poetheart 07/15/02
When the sun comes out
I hear a cry over my shoulders... I spot long bones
made of gold stabbed into the earth...
the sun pours down into the marrow.Bones made us wince in the old days...
white as ghosts on barren wastelands feeding crows.
Piles stacked high to the sky making death seem reasonable and pure.
Now bones fall out of this world and evil exits.
by Jason Visconti