Bag of Bones
The I of the poem
moves its lips into mine
like pale reflections of a word
too drunk for work
it pushes some bones
into a leather pouch
and bids them dance
they cast you as a shadow
playing a small part behind
the printed ruins of
the child in her cloth urn.
View all poems by Giles Goodland
moves its lips into mine
like pale reflections of a word
too drunk for work
it pushes some bones
into a leather pouch
and bids them dance
they cast you as a shadow
playing a small part behind
the printed ruins of
the child in her cloth urn.
We felt our tongues at the root,
the head filling with
human words that become harder,
they grind in geological time
perhaps in a playground the child
overheard something I said
as I turned the clock to the wall
a worm confirmed silence, verbs
clustered against the face.
Giles Goodland
View all poems by Giles Goodland