Relentless No love deserves such punishment. Our marriage grows into an aging buffalo, its meat blown dry by the chilled northern winds, picked clean by small skittering birds until the very heart of it is gone. Its bones scatter and tumble, some to be carried off by laughing wolves or displayed in a museum at Graceland for future lovers to frown upon,                                           scoff, 'that'll not be us'. They're unable to see the winds already building like a tornado to their north. They can't fathom they need shelter from that relentless moon, already spinning its Pole dance in anticipation of killing hunts yet to come. Pris Campbell ©2007 Art: Separation by Munch Return to Poetry Index II Return to Homepage