Hooves leave a hard imprint, a dark wet mark.
Hoof-clop like the noise your tongue makes
When it leaves the roof of your mouth.
essays | fiction | poetry | photography | art
Hooves leave a hard imprint, a dark wet mark.
Hoof-clop like the noise your tongue makes
When it leaves the roof of your mouth.
Its big head, glassy stare
and halting hobble
from random ewe to ewe
made me think of you –
they sit on the bridge. they cluster
as close as the round bulbs
of road-swollen blackberries,
dusty with travel.
Cutting my hair with the meat scissors,
being told off for not using a hairdresser,
explaining that if I don’t change something
often I will do something worse
we revered those rake-limbed lads
on the slot machines
as though they were gods,
not fishermen’s lads.
It will not miss
a trick—
or treat.
Its bulging eyeballs
on a roll,
it makes an advance
and then stops.
Something Lives Something lives in the crawl spaceAbove my room. A bird? Maybe a rat?Sometimes it seems to be shaking out its feathers.But then there’s a scrabbling overheadAnd the squares of insulation quiver. I’m not afraid of you, I tell the shaking panels.We all have the right to be.And I will not pursue you with…
I find the roots of an oak (dead, upturned, twisted)
and am left more disoriented than before.
these are the tears that we cannot shed
as we comment on the beauty of the glen and
how wonderful it must have been to live in such a place.
the cake is made of Walthamstow
a dense and glutinous Walthamstow
we are going to make Walthamstow
a Titanic success for Walthamstow
paring knife, won’t use it to make
the pierogi. The potato goes
soft in the microwave,
the onion falls apart
and fries itself.
Bright rays reflect, shape, shake her portrait on the water skin
and it’s broken, burnt, soon gone.