No room for a bird that sings
through her dangling foot.

Thus, always leaving
always grieving

the loss of  middle-earth:
things given birth

then quickly reified:
something rising in a corner

swelling and lifting its cover -
not bread left to it's own.

A swan's wake, more shimmering
than her plumage - not a monk's glosses.

A field burned for grazing -
not poetry.

The long goodbye.
Always counting on some hollow ilex --

a kenning, a beggar,
a toddler with one eye

up to his knees in water and lye; expectant,
big-hearted, and lost - to take us across.