“restlessly, driven by leaves.”
after a line by Rilke
shoved places of air –
pockets of autumn/natural languages.
The scuffed water/the swinging fruits/the ruffled gulls
– wind with its throat open.
The soaring cold barks at windows like a kept-out dog
whines through the small spaces/slows the old.
And in cold’s quiet undertow blood is not quite wide enough/blood
clotted on pavements rowanberry red.
My ear to the stone hard/hard
a murmur is coming/
a tremble of locked-up hooves.
Jackdaws and magpies land on the treetops.
The branches flap/they wave.
An old man looks up in his flat cap/
his mouth a shut wound.
traipsing the ochre-cluttered gardens
and Milo, a shadow/
his guts thrust up to his chest.
the days loop-gusts tight to the bone
loose to the sky/the lifted holes.
From ‘A Wound’s Sound’, Oneiros Books, 2014. First published at ‘Poethead’.