Soil

 

There is just a suggestion of mountainous terrain across the bay;

when, in the haze, they disappear so do I;

but a starling on the apex of the gable continually shifting the dial

along the short-wave is holding me present.

Sunlight is a strange thing. It lies, dead body on the patio;

takes everyone, everything down with it;

but it’s then the earth transmits most readily

what the sun is communicating.

Now the sun is counting my bones, registering their composition,

colour and structure; I, stretched out on a flag,

am almost reduced to clay,

the listening layer of soil.