apology

I enjoy poetry too much.

* * *

When I was seven


The ditch beside the cement gate
of third cousin’s flat
was alive that morning.

He almost walked by it, victor
of the old race to the bottom—
Coal pitched steps to light,

but something black
moved against the black of the pit
and drew screams not from him.


* * *


A black cloud
may have risen from it, sere
as fuming rubber—

A fit of terrible coughing
at the thing not fancy black
like a jet of oil or of hard
licorice gleam like a standard
helmet.

It was the dull leather
of a bat. The wings’ bent spokes
only half folded. There was fur,
or half-mice reviled.


* * *

Were there eyes?
Were there many?
Was it a bat?
He may not recall now, either.
Swift with verdict, he
brought down
a child’s god-foot

(was it belly or bite
that met his boot or sandal? Heat
escaped from the vase body?
Chill of the massive building’s
massive shade?).

Again and again
his foot mashed the bone and fur
deeper in the sod.


* * *

It was still morning;
no whole forms remained
distinct from tar.

Perhaps that’s when
the char cloud rose
and our identical
coughing ended it.


* * *

The ditch held mum. Had it been mud,
it would have given in, but
would have clung to that heel,
making it heavy.

Dry pitch would have dragged
black every other step
on the cement that smacked
all soles the same.

Rain would have
cleared it all in one mindful
afternoon.


* * *

There is no memory
of blood, but there must have been
some unguent to bone and fur
and clod. Some reek of metal to run
the murk where such dim moments
gather as gnats around a trough.


* * *

Autumn is spring.
Pigskin boots are plastic
sandals. Mud
dries.
In the end,
the horror is made
with each resurfacing
lighter.