The red of cloud-bramble,
Where I used to go,
Torn and asunderMoses'Biblewon'tletmegothere anymore.
The whip of red grass-slash,
The torn legs of insects,
The snorting black-hole of nostril flare.
It is all gone now.
I stand amongst the cloud-brambles,
The blackberry stains amidst my smiling breaths,
It is all a faint midst-block of the beating parts of gates.
The lock of gates is harder to bear than any darkling thrush.
That bird died long ago,
At the beginning of a new century of sadness.
The mechanised throb of a stinging lice-nip.
The rob of moments.
The moment of sixty minutes,
Amongst ashy-crumbs of soil.
Wet-footed steps,
Back to nowhere.
