If anything like mercy had the controls,
the sun would switch off. Shakes
in the marrow, in a bodhran-heart. I’m
done. Rook-noise borne in on long moans
off the street. Be still in your swamp.
Nerve-ends a garden rake through
the burnt lawn of the sheet. All
psalms gone, again child again
born into the neglect of a world
that won’t pay out into you Welcome.
Self-sorry and sweating. Only a smidgen
left of unused inner space. Slip
chance in — very nearly said grace.