the doing we are talking about

the clench 

the cry stifled

the table of strange theatre

and each and all in the night

slowly home I’m saying

confess my head the dirty bit

finger on nail, the hammer

of manner and motion away from a source

of meaning and the matter it makes

of mother-work, the merry and the dead

quite broken, the blacktop, I’m speaking

a turtle’s back

wet asphalt and now the rain

Check out other work in the 17/18 Poems series here.