A Face of Certified Holes
in the cleared mindcamp the elephant is always in the room
fear less than clear
on a flight to Belfast
to bury the dead
and couldn’t find knees
all kinds of physics at work
in the air
to trace the heat of fingers there is a kind, they say, a kind of heat, in the tracing of lives, relit, reseen, the body grown back through the feet, through the drift, stone by stone, setting eyes on, angel of the misheard, rubbings of the unreal,
the sound of hardened grass and lowered coffin, cracked and taken into, the clipped hedges grown round, flapping budgies, found in the tatters, in what’s dropped, there is a scrounging, a scourge, a rounding out in time, dug into, looked out on, grown round, come in, kissing the stone lips of the dead, a kind, they say, of certified holes, of physics, and the body repainted, remade, redone, and the bootclomps and shifted shoulders on the way to the site, angel of pampered loyalty, babies blue flowered and pink ribboned, croned, weathed, what’s out there, in the tracings, in what’s not said, re-eaten, reseen, there is always a room