How, During Certain Evenings, I Fend Off the Sorrow of Wrens and Swallows.
a bite. a sick and bent syllable, an oath taken tragic and rash. not
even a drunken louse’s swollen stitches, a strong note held on the peak
of Known Rock, not a partner’s trumped hand nor silvery fetid fish
skins, not a village-ragged dog, a forced and muddy filth-stream
climbing the top of my old boot–it will soak me–not this. not three
days of sea dreams in a burnt white hospital bed. not a song. not a
woman. no black-berries, no. not any wild freak-will.