Edge the pain towards the child:
a matter of years. Nevertheless
snow fades upon so much that is laid,
the endless stretched-out plans.
They hit us with small fists and we fix them
into beds as if to apply this to life.
We’re afraid they’ll come out indifferent
as if there was ever a coherent child
or a unified fly
the lung inversely tree hangs
between early morning’s porch-
light, shows the dim way behind
the steps. Blank leaderless rain falls on us
as we wait for human shapes.
Lost dogs run before they melt, before
light splotches the road and
fragments of conversation pace at pathfoot.
When the road is quiet you hear
the storm-drain whisper.
The blush in that
the truer lie bends in
that catch the moon is sky to
kindles, it seems objects are
river of inside, inspection, that silts
her wrists and wraps herself in ribbons.
Giles Goodland has published several books of poetry including A Spy in the House of Years (2001), Capital (2006), What the Things Sang (2009), The Dumb Messengers (2012) and The Masses (2018). He works in Oxford as a lexicographer and lives in West London.