it might be ice
broken glass rises
from the camber
sharp as a walled camp
aquaplanings
locked treads
in counter curve
lose their algorithm
a condolence of wattle
the forensic lumen black
where primary colours meet
something darker rises in me
leave things be
let the blackberries renounce
the cock’s thrice summons
on one arm, mother
the other triptych, fucker
head forward in a gymnast’s pose
I make the call
the patrol officer
is younger than my daughter
a first death stalls in her throat
a gasp of brandy catching
broken rifles kindling on the slope
atonement in a carmine morning
Abandoned Soliloquies UnCollected Press 2019
James Walton Poetry 