“I am hung on the handle of a great idea
like an apron” you said smelling of onion
scrubbed clean at the jaw as always
a high sallow color a pale wet neck like a cucumber’s
pink sowbelly mouth gaze whetted with loss
I was busy in the grips of a hard-toothed sorrow
you who had earned a living saying mourner’s prayers
were silent too at the feet of a grand thing
bared teeth face inclined to the pavement
whistling godfullofmercy-
dwellingintheheights
your jaw a clean line a disappearing angle
the sky full up with yellow mealy cloud
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