In Between the Two
a black moon cut from a nick
of cloth, a razor edged
inward, towards the centre
skirting, but never risking a laugh
or a nick on the clove of the ear, or
a box in between the two
such simple displeasure as
these, are rare in deed, incautious
and cut from swaths and nicks
of cheap cloth, so as to prevent
the fraying of ears and twits
of hair, sheared from the centre out
and the moon, black as night
perhaps blacker, yet I
will risk a laugh, boxed
in between the two
of my ears, cloven in and sheared
from the centre out
my fathers’ knuckles, that’s all
I remember, sharpened on the clove of
my ears, boxed for good measure
and sheared white, from the centre out
