the weeds of his mane.

Then we turned him about and slipped his anchor,

eased him out of the noose of his tether,

and rolled him in

and started to dig.

But even with donkey, water and soil

there wasn’t enough to level the hole

after what was washed away

or turned into clay

or trodden in, so we opened the earth

and started in on a second trench for dirt

to fill the first.

Which left a taste

of starting something that wouldn’t finish:

a covered grave with a donkey in it,

a donkey-size hole

within a stone’s throw

and not a single bone to drop in it

or a handful of dust to toss on top of it.

The van wouldn’t start, so we wandered home

on foot, in the dark, without supper or profit.

HITCHER

I’d been tired, under

the weather, but the ansaphone kept screaming:

One more sick-note, mister, and you’re finished. Fired.

I thumbed a lift to where the car was parked.

A Vauxhall Astra. It was hired.

I picked him up in Leeds.

He was following the sun to west from east

with just a toothbrush and the good earth for a bed. The truth,

he said, was blowin’ in the wind,

or round the next bend.

I let him have it

on the top road out of Harrogate—once

with the head, then six times with the krooklok

in the face—and didn’t even swerve.

I dropped it into third

and leant across

to let him out, and saw him in the mirror

bouncing off the kerb, then disappearing down the verge.

We were the same age, give or take a week.

He’d said he liked the breeze

to run its fingers

through his hair. It was twelve noon.

The outlook for the day was moderate to fair.

Stitch that, I remember thinking,

you can walk from there.

TO HIS LOST LOVER

Now they are no longer

any trouble to each other

he can turn things over, get down to that list

of things that never happened, all of the lost

unfinishable business.

For instance … for instance,

how he never clipped and kept her hair, or drew a hairbrush

through that style of hers, and never knew how not to blush

at the fall of her name in close company.

How they never slept like buried cutlery—

two spoons or forks cupped perfectly together,

or made the most of some heavy weather—

walked out into hard rain under sheet lightning,

or did the gears while the other was driving.

How he never raised his fingertips

to stop the segments of her lips

from breaking the news,

or tasted the fruit,

or picked for himself the pear of her heart,

or lifted her hand to where his own heart

was a small, dark, terrified bird

in her grip. Where it hurt.

Or said the right thing,

or put it in writing.

And never fled the black mile back to his house

before midnight, or coaxed another button of her blouse,