This land is too, too flat except for cow’s backs gentle dips for head resting sometimes it feels like historical re-enactment words crumble out gear-change into another tense full throttle harsh ggggggggg consonants on opposite day holding hands to cross the road holding hands to watch a calf fall from the backend of its mother after the residual leaking she emits cow sounds what a gift to be born looking into that sky is what she is saying it won’t rain, my father-land says, if you can make a pair of trousers out of the blue heavens that leak gradations into porcelain cups, clogs on a girl, the tussle of dam against sea heaven is sweat from churning up the kinds of phrases to make houses safe as houses with stable lettering here in the North it falls back language in rewind across a dyke of awning green towards my father, sipping his coffee, checking the score.
No posts