we touched the sky

with suffered silos:

feigned gates on which my love might hang 

scabbed wreaths creaking in idle winds

peppered, long-feln

to keep the flies off 

to keep some facsimile of youth intact

another field-dressed carcass

only good for sausage

by the watershed.

ground is a funny word, isn't it? 

rough-hewn earths and

torn up turfs and

a finer...

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a weighty fog

like tinned milk 

sweetly opaque 

hiding the feathers and tears

traces of a an empty place called

heaven.

these beads rest on hats

press down on weary brows and

weave between the fibres

of gloves

of family 

such a slippery thing, this life. 

like a rain you can't catch on your tongue 

but the taste weaves between your

thoughtful mol...

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