Back fence
second coming clock growls low
offering a
fistful of wet Jesus slips
I used to
paint the horizon at the embankment end
There was
always too much sky
Below, the
wharf with oxide fur on barge remains green smears
on portacabin
walls
Crowmobbed
heron pierce air to bleak
Hands
dripping with autoimmunity
a face
liquefied
the skin
hospital’s lamps
Dead cygnet
bones somewhere
and the nest
open mouthed
Boy run off
by swan in bestial glory
Cup ring on
the bench will disappear
Water
drowning
baby trees
My monstrous
crust lips twitched
The heat my
body made
is saying so
insect ears tune in
the rushes O
Rhythm of
the wires against the mast