Poems
poetry
comes from a shallow place
so easily missed
like marks passed over
for want of glasses
it’s never unexpected
till we see the wall is there
these men shaped like sledgehammers
with poetry on their backs
bashing head against brick
till the message is clear
the roughness and the fit of things
someone clenches a fist against the wall
but a wall is harder than a punch
wall’s made of broken bones
someone sighs into the air
but the sky is lighter
it’s fashioned of swoons long since
someone rolls over in her sleep
but a dream is a rattling of carriage
tracks out of the sleeping night
one takes off the top of the head
who says what’s first to fly?
do that squirrel run to the top of the tree
and who do we find swaying there?
be the breeze – easy to say
and one day you’re smoke wafting
and when we’re gone
we’ll still be had
all the nonsense of belief
a fine tombstone
like a funny ear
sticking out of the ground
and the last laugh
ringing
better still
lay down like spent stalks
when the grain has gone
that’s the decent thing to do