Beyond murmur burning –
the marching wound, old meat and bare bud. Another sun
hints at butcher’s blood in running flesh. Ruined
birds wake from a coiled dream, wings empty from being born,
their loss mostly planted in the rough land. A grief
heaved to a hung lamb, a swung cow, a river of pigs.
“I brought light, I looked,
Everywhere blood reigned.
And I cried, I wept with my whole body.”
– Yves Bonnefoy
Heavier than the hour –
the rowan berries lie like rubies sucked and spat.
The broom on the hill relives the light – it blooms
its fires to blisters. From air, sea-wet and witness –
the gull. She peers in necks popped wide flustered mouths.
The gape a dead-eyed howl such innocent names. A banner
of blood, of body, our plucked beds tidy. Our crime –
grieve like ripped-up rain, like fists.
Moment Reflected in Bonnard
Drool-capped crocus. My eye on it – fresh
from a doubled-up winter. My butter impulse
– to bloom as yellow, to search for the sun.
A gust that misses me ruffles time. Its dark floor
sky-rise a murmuration – sifted, dropped on –
forgot. The upright wound that marks a grave
for a flowerbed. How it reeks with mirrors!
All suffering in its glass, all the dead-eye dreams.
There will be blossoms soon – I have room,
a piece of warm, my white cat.