After Laura Mullen's Piece Work and Tony Jolley's Sleeve & Air, and My Father's Son
Deep in the bone
wings
black mist
dimly alight
just a memory
not the forearm I remember
nor flesh
stripped back to that barest
use, the word
spacing unteneted
correct grazing
the air out at each deep marked edge
this effort
set
stark stripped to joint
near the present event
dream’s static
appears out of scapula
to find afloat
on air
the feel of time
rooting
vines sprouts veins
cover her body
in a downy velour
here, green
like early feathers
over her
surfacing
the whirring machine
fabric dusted
lack
of masks
of flight
phrases’ slip
speaking each to each
set into leaving
bereaved
soon
roots, identity
earth
drop away
a glancing as if words
licked into arcs
lyric
space or expunged records
withered
into was, and where
arctic and anthropomorphic
dispersing
recollection in the bone
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