What is it in these mutant shallows that prickles
and throbs? In the swelling moss of air, the
soil morning, smoking itself outwards, peated?
What is it in this stew, this union of sweet rot
and loneliness that is itching out a fine rhythm
of chaff and burn?
I hear crying in the dog heap. Now angels
reside in the summer dustbins.
What is that? —-
What are these atmospheres of church coat?
I feel the end of the lane trickling away from
the house, waves of incense leaving the cliff
I am not in control of the departed.
What is it spreading out on the lawn, reaching
from the smoldering brush? The pounding
heat, shade of brick, loaf of shale and calcite.
I am losing my — out here, I —
What is it?
Oil of the eye, dark curdling, sections of sky seem to
bleed down, irrigating the dust, birthing clusters
of finger grit that will remain for days: Little histories.
I am on the floor I realise.
By the water, white fish rap and writhe on ink
rock; the sound snaps in the night and finds me
at hyper-speed, eyes: sheer and ghastly.
In the morning I walk along lanes that buzz and
sway. Wind, flora — colluding and computing vague
murmurs on the cusp of the earth. Bully.
Suffocate lacuna — dried spittle and discharge.
Stuck in womb, blood is brown.
Snakeroot, bugwort, rattle weed.
Why is that when I read the tide times I feel as
if something other is being transmitted?
As if my circumstance is being mapped out for
me, out in the Atlantic weather.