the cloth that covers the dead... wrapping it and wrapping it around your wound...

under the bridge the twinkling

swollen hands encounter the twinkling ground,

fingers root in disintegrating remembrance,

funnel that opening up to rain

& there comes the wash of exhaustion

down from the shining leaves to rest

amongst skin’s neat clawed-petal clasps

-

years later, wondering - what was wanted with you?

not your inner ears burnt black

nor your funny mouth

stitched closed

 - that figure stumbling

across a full wet field under a box of your books, greasy shawl sun-cooked

heels slicing grass into the mud’s suck

– she came to the pavilion to give your books away, and who wants them now?

fireworks into the damp bushes, awkward

pauses in the pub

you becoming unknown, plummet

through rent discussability

-

pavilion’s hot and stuffy or cold and stuffy and the floorboards flex.

couples step enclosed compulsions, systolic circuits against breath,

sweat, talk, - yes, like this,

learning displacement

(throw one beat out, skip it across a green surface

into the jaws of an eel)

in the space in your chest desire falls