Monday, 17 October 2011

The Kill / Hiding / A stage

The Kill

Black teeth and wires
dead wood ripped from grey scrabbling earth
the thighs and the root ends
sprawling veins still damp
and humming.

He cut a path through the field, dragging
the beast behind him,
its open eye white
and unseen in the dark save by the scatting arc
of the dangled torch
breathless and nervy in my sweaty
cold palm.

Limbs stiff and bouncing,
hopping over rivets and ploughscars
whooping and bleeding no stars
came to us, tripping on pebbles
and pumpkin creepers.

Tugged fur came off in clumps at the rasp
of clutching hands

And his head
shaved and drawn,
faced forward, brow breaking the air’s
waves to the fire

that burned up hooves and hairs
and drew in the night around it.  


Sleep soundly like a
crab, all in a space
of rocks
and a drip of water
all spiny shell safe and
egg shell white, wet sand.

Only the calls catch the wind
The towers, the lighthouses.

A stage

Everything seems cut out,
in layers, falling neatly behind
the last,
slotted into the earth

Here is where the house
Here is where the trees
Here is where the trees

No comments:

Post a Comment