Near Old Meldrum, After a Funeral

In memoriam Nick Bogdan

What a world, the godhead gone

but everywhere his bony little feet protruding,

blunt toes poking out from underneath

the blankets of the dawn,

the fields of rye.

His knobby knees stick out through ledges,

and his tongue’s a lacerating stream

through woods in early spring.

Those are his shoulders lifting hedges,

hips that bulge the downy heath.

His fingers climb the walls of sky.