Quake
gather: circled
silence surfaces, entangles
between the beams
dissipates,
rising towards the God we know
to be watching here within
it shivers.
if we are to marvel,
let it be at this.
Balancing better
I’d wondered what it would be
to become the loch;
to sit on the setting green, to feel
the oak and the birch.
But the swan dirties its neck
to catch grub or minnows,
and we pass the smell of shit in this air
to reach out past the hollow.
And Southern boys scrape knees, shout fuck
as if it’s the last bloody word on Earth
and the lake (it’s a lake), the crux,
is still.
The sewage clears, stretching:
we can breathe through the sirens, metal on glass.
We shouldn’t have this.
Top of the car bridge,
where the burn could have been.
The Kindling 