--John Burnside
Nothing is adapted to the fret
of LED and blockwork, snow-drift
gusted over ice into
the hayricks, scraps
of sackcloth, clagging, bodies scabbed with mud
and bedstraw, blotched eyes
searching: finding
nothing; giving in.
We know their names
from catalogues and songs; but these
are nothing like, just weather of a sort,
discarnate, eyeless, waiting for a sign:
run of matter blackening the floor,
the ache of rennet, hoofprints in the stone.
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