Fuck You Truck, Bastille Day 2016

remember the first time that retch
of a trodden heart when youth
fancies itself worth an ending

this hill so steep I’m standing
fingers dug into the green of it
waiting for the valley to drop

the bike on its head by the soak
how the angle tripped technology
four wheels sliding in dismay

telling death him her it them
what a poor job you’re making of it
fuck you fuck you fuck you

a baby on a road spared the decline of parents
civilians or what’s left rising like bakers’ apprentices
from the rubble of a laugh at family suppers

in the rumble of machines or a vest opening
fates that crossed on some lunatic’s list
gods make devils of the most prolific things

rolling over my too comfortable tummy
feet push into the slope a slow gain
red clay and a marguerite of cape weed

if gravity is just another name for presence
falling through a reserved space
makes a vacant soul blossom into being

those ambulances what keeps them going
water still arrives bearers are carried
hands dig throw burrow crave and care

a fob watch woman eats men like air
a man talks of wearing his trousers rolled
a human is already a fragile worn glorious thing

a child’s waking tingling morning stretch
should be the icing on the day
having already dreamed what cannot be taken

Walking Through Fences ASM & Cerberus Flying Island Books 2018

(with five words from Sylvia and T.S.)

Monet Weeping Willow

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