Reservoir

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