Still air breaks A folded shout An echo, a chase A half familiar shape Always (almost) always catches up Your mouth is proud flesh I know you speak yellow flowers Chrysanthemums, daisies, cicatrix All sun coloured glowering Scratched, pierced through, rolling A grin sunset wide Chest hard beaten cloth Entangled scant vehemence I am that field, over there The prone face of the hill Reaped in mown straw Left to jigsaw the sun In hard razored angles Obtuse, oblique Enough to jangle The sunburned nape Footsteps strafing The clod turned earth A hole will break you If you do not Keep lightly running Still I am creased Turned and bent Crumpled, dismade, thrown and rent By the origami of your voice
