Of Mass & Damage

  I squat like a sly dog
like a pregnant Boeing
to junk all grace and
genuflect – to utter
a furred kettle’s pitch
electrics fizzing O spoilt
  miracle of my heart.

  Pray I pitch my bones
into some task of worth
as your nails, Lord, elbow
and fibrous scapula graze
  the inside of my gullet.

  Like some sly and twitching
dog I watch, observe
and fix my paws
like clubs to beat upon
  the cruelly visible.

  What has mass
and damage, what has
cost and record –
build a room for it
make a camera of the eye
to beat upon
the visible remains
  of sun and gut.

  My heart a massy bulb
with the sudden, neon
shock of –
it was not grace
but something wrenched
and seething
  and mine.

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