The god loss
Remember the little god who stood up to sleep,
strolled across lawns mimicking ducks.
They say he beat back books, charged per syllable with
mountainous, black-jacked fuck thrusts.
He didn’t disclose where he went on the weekend
or the wagonless weevils which itched in his spine,
it was the press in the primroses
the tide turning idle
the grack of a key stuck
in an eye lock.
Let monacles show you systems of tea cups tidings
gesture to fences, sturdy and autumn-throbbed,
the de-mobbed section of this has no ending
just a subject exploring topical loss.
