And on the eighth day

I wrote this 7×7 poem and then rewrote it as a sevenling.

And on the eighth day

The days burn like touchpaper,
the blue throbs, fierce pulse beating,
and the bare earth is riddled
with holes, swept of all beauty.
Moles, mice, nothing lives beneath
the field’s cracked skin, lifeblood drained
into the deep, mocking core.

Sevenling (The days burn)

The days burn blue and bronze
with a heavy throb of gongs and drums—
a buzzard glides, mewling.

Chicory blue fades ash grey
into the orange dust,
where black holes gape like mouths.

Roots are white bones, feathered spring flown.