a creature isn’t thought from its shell, my knife extracts it

to nourish me wasn’t in its life plan no kidding

I’ve settled bottom-first into the mud of this thinking

pulled the mud of it to my chin, but even a toad

leaps through its tent flaps in spring like a one-man band

what can I do, blink first in this standoff with the May

in its cop sunglasses trying to break me

I don’t trust it

and who would seek with me a community of refuge there

even among my fellow half-people

denuded of vegetation, all remainder

estranged by wandering from our body mass

if no one follows shall I lie alone

at my own graveside, on a mattress of the dead

with no cover over me

Now blood on his lip . . .

Now blood on his lip

for some reason

Servanus, desiring a place less pleasant, came here

and flourished in an argument

that the authentic sacrifice is a pure mind, clean spirit

conscience without guile

I offer cold, the season working as it should

loneliness, love working as it should

pain, the body working as it should

and failure

a thought indulged in isolation is almost certainly an error

and May the plus-minus sign

final iteration of a declining symbol I sense before opening my eyes

in the cave the firth’s dogs dug for me

that the wind plays

as it plays us all, without courtesy

exceeding demand somewhat

the last seed heads tearing their hair out

and raw chill I suppose I’m expected to defeat

as a matter of principle

Tomorrow, for sure, he will make a start . . .

Tomorrow, for sure, he will make a start

on his regimen

the body quickly becomes a burden

puts a strain on the carer

gets wet, gets cold, drags its feet through the 10,000 steps

one wakes at night to the sound of it crying

asking for knowledge they don’t make anymore

refusing to go to the spring for water

when in the morning, water is the first thing it wants

A vision . . .

A vision

he didn’t seem right, St. Luke

in the dream, he was not mild

and with my own voice bade me look

where the island, yards from shore

had sent forth a bridge of rock

by which I boarded

it was warm, bright, I was alone

the grey sea growled like a gear

not so much heard as felt

and when I turned back, the cave

had receded to a dot

the May rolled, prepared to dive

He reexamines his practice . . .

He reexamines his practice

maybe it’s still too personal, how I’m doing this

moisture in the contemplation oversupplying the contemplated

run-off contributing to the global damp

walls stained with it, rising earth-damp

the May’s hair plastered to its skull, mascara running

staring through the rain-streaked window

staring in or staring out

rocks shivering their molecules are coated with the effort