that couldn’t get born like a frog in the throat
then pyjama sickness prescient fever
stitch a coming canal running out of wool
then dye so dull and grey not made the stuffing stains
or you can’t go back candle lit the rosary round your neck
your little grey grasp bonny shadow of her wishes
can I make or could I do something
not swaddled in mauve of the sad world
or let those grow and calmed become
on this landing of your mosses
Owllight 