This poem has no name

This is the kind of note
You should destroy after reading

Scrabble pieces in a cup
Spilled out across
The worn parquetry of meaning

Tear it from the book
The ragged seam almost invisible, but
Now the pages
Never sit quite flat
The teardrop bowing of lacuna 

A whistle elongated between 
Fingers placed uncouthly in the mouth
Saliva wet
Shrilling in that forest way
Of sunlight and warning
Decanting through the myrrh and honey branches

A cat grows in sunshine
Poached eggs, an insistent wind
Left over from the barbarity of desert summer
Small clouds dragged across the sky
The eclipse almost fatal
On thick toast for late breakfast
Flour dusting
The distance almost serene
Between then and now
Crumple, discard, forget
Almost, once upon a time
Someone died today

Driving to Golgotha

Hang the washing sideways
she says with the crucifixion drawl
of dust eclipsing a copper beaten sun
centurions at hem and sleeve
makes a livelier kind of execution 
the snared bird scrape
wrist bone against
an enfilading chin
decaying like the silver halides
of old photographs

to a spit-edged, palsied shake

an ochre layer to prevent halation 
(the blistered, liminal glow
of blurred mirrors and sun dogged tv screens)
laved with the first soft breath of rain
in the liquorice blasphemy of her mouth
a grit like succour 

heaving dust-devil exhalations 

flows across the raw edged bitumen
a vine that bears
dead crows In efflorescence 

swerving wrist-break hard

the tread marks plain
as a slap