The Remains

Heads or toes no difference In the turf foot we lean on the other in four and sixes. And we dream the hand dangle long fingered alive in a tick tock of math, the quick kiss of fingertip to limpet shell the blind raking callus across our fetal hump. Lay down in the nightjar’s egg and brush your lips long the palm of the old man before he retreats into the dry peat.

and our midging armies drift in plumes of consciousness.

Out of the membered fog hypotenuse she forms a hob boot shuffle to the shed. Hood and frieze-fold to the slighting breeze feel the pendula of zinc and tin, the bucket shift in a blush of ash that escapes the brim. She kneels waggles at the plinth and unladdered from the ogham clamp our wishbone names come rumbling down.