Out of winter, grief-dusted and new sun,
March morning tears hyacinths from the sky.
I rise, bright-boned and rotted bud,
sick of myself, of love, of blood. I rub
red writing onto my skin. I am not dead
just numb and a fist, a balcony’s edge
where the bride waves thin,
all sugar and shut-off shadows.
Lifted, listen to the stains of the birds
their eyes oil, their flight a flowered rain.
No sun stammers above the cloud. No sun
cleans the tide, wraps the dead. Bloodless/
the stalks of spring wait to be flames.
Their sappy blades are madness. Only sorrow
sees them, alone as a tied dog waiting
for a yellow bone, a heavy ink
to give it a name.
I cannot move. This is my rain perhaps/
my pulse the waves of the firth,
the gulls fishing for graves.