By Esme Bell
Whorl is a word that should be
Licked. Nutty and round, nearly
Hollow but rich things are tricked
Underneath. Strange, how
Someone so brown can wield such
Silver. You can stroke a garden wall
With one finger and know everything.
An agent of slow truths: what grass
Really feels: how rain doesn’t fall but
Weeps – my eyes, somehow less than
Two, don’t feel like you do. Tell me
Small fresh secrets; smile in the dawn;
And avoid the boot, fat and over-strong.
The day will crack and the air will flay
Into a weal: you can’t even scream under
This new terror, this brazen sky.
Crime is a small word for this large splinter
Of space hard wedged in my shoe,
But the blackbird still cries and
Somewhere, so does the rain.