Straight through

Three a tree
they hang like harpies,
the landmine of the dark holding
hostage in the hammocks.

Thin limbed and soundless
they hope for hearts ease or comfrey or apples,
and waiting makes it worse

when all that gallopes towards them
is light shredding the trees
and some faces they might bite.

The photographer who shows up in clean clothes
is nothing but a
knife left next to a sink.

They are in time,
the wind is waiting for the blood to leak from their cheeks,
the grass, suddenly growing between their feet.

No one is looking to the top,
no one has anything
except one, crown down crawling,
blowing mud bubbles.