by Antony Dunn
To say nothing of all the moths and wasps
I’ve been opening windows for;
the sheep headlocked in the wire
of a fence,
the newt in the slippery inch
of a dog-bowl of rain,
the spider coming off and off
its wall of death in the kitchen sink
and the bat flopping the living-room floor
in a straight-jacket of dust, cobweb and hair.
I have angled your skulls
poured you out into colour-matched weeds
at the edge of the pond,
offered you into a wineglass and out
to the forest of herbs
and taken you into my own
unravelling hands and worked you loose
in this borrowed house; let you go
on the slopes by the buzzard tree.
Now, who’s coming for me?
Last updated November 28, 2022