my beetle, dead, not buried. i keep them, yet it fell to the floor, mysteriously lost. we try to turn disasters round, here, knowing it will be found, some time. my dear sweet sexton, the burying kind.
i learn about sub soil, all things growing,
the logistics of death.
just stand and watch the season change, note the dew and separate ideas. remember that you stand alone. are not alone from criticism and contradiction.
beetles here turn over, legs waving, we turn them back, then, it is all repeated. empathy kicks in for all small folk who suffer, who cry in dark corners.
yet i have mislaid the black beetle too.
it was some time ago we lost.the sexton.
that feeling, that .
arrives unexpected from darkness, some winters’ mornings,
opening the door to the sound of one black bran bird calling.
track four repeated. that
comes on waking finding peace and comfort bound in clean
linen.
arises with perfume, an uncertain memory.
it may be chemicals, peptides in the brain as love, what
ever the germ or warfare
I find no word to describe, no random feather nor dust on
my plate. pass a finger.
that feeling of trimmed nails upon the keys pounding
words and silences.
while music plays. that feeling. that.
syrup stings my tongue.
