Assisi - by
The dwarf with his hands on backwards
/ sat, slumped like a half-filled sack
/ on tiny twisted legs from which
/ sawdust might run,
/ outside the…
beggars
Frescade - by
we have to go call a taxi
/ the light be the store isn’t working
/ the night is black
/ the moon is dark tonight
/ I…
Processional at the Winter Solstice - by
He has gone down into darkness at the wrecked end of the year
And is lying, gaberlunzie, in the needled nest of frost.
The arctic thrushes call for him although he cannot hear.
Mercy O’ Gode - by
Twa bodachs, I mind, had a threep ae day,
/ Aboot man’s chief end…