Boxing Day

Boxing Day


The future of flesh:

bitter chocolate

and sweet regret.

Passed

sped past, trop vite,

a boy, 10 or 11,

white shirt, worried

face anxious, perhaps,

to be home.

Moments later

a disturbance of the air.

A death and a wake.

Against the prevailing

When the wind drops

body lightens,

steps lengthen,

home quicker, warmer

but, except to draw breath,

feint, and come back

all the harder

the wind never stops.

Quietly

Hinges oiled.

Doors no longer

semaphore

every movement

around the house.

I leave you

and return

unnoticed but

the floorboard

betrays me.

Early morning

Early. Walk 
to buy milk.

Wind scuds the road
raises dust-
-devils forces 
tears to haul 
behind them
pails-full 
of grief, fear
of your death.

Returning.
Milk and bread.

Sun warms my spine
unshadows 
the blackbirds’
aerial song
bidding accepting – 
brick, privet, cars
iridesce.

Arc of the 
bridge connects.

One walk
one day
home.

Material fact

I can see

surfaces

only

which, I see,

is two metaphors

or three.

 

No poetry in pain

No song

no poem in pain

nor civility

the herd move away.

Flesh tears at the mind

pitifies spirit.

I lap alone at

my old pool of blame

anger nescience

growing more thirsty

fearing the house-beast

moving in the dark

to kill.

.