April Valley, the Dark

not many know
a valley in the spring
where despite all other legends
real vampires rise to drink

the people of the town
sense them as they tread
wriggling most every season
in mud on which they fed

but when the ice trickles
and pools are filled with eggs
the vampires crave the surface
and harden their wormy legs

wintry hunter Orion
sinks beneath the land
birds crack their thawing voices
rebirth extends its warming hands

you see them skirt the forest
people shadowed by the wood
listening to poems of twilight
surrendering if they could

no one questions
when the wanderers disappear
seeking lonely walks
wishing vampires to be near

a woman with blowing hair
leans with budding trees
imagines the unctuous lips
and pleasure in her knees

a man is searching also
along a swelling stream
his thoughts caress the shoulders
of the girl within his dreams

then the vampires do emerge
a secret hour of the spring
the few will meet their passions
moaning as peepers sing

each year they don’t return
from fancies they were warned
now swimming in layered soil
envied more than mourned

generations never leave
where lust is mixed with dread
in the greening little valley
the living love the dead