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.