MY FRIEND'S FATHER

Comminations

This cannot go on, it will go on. Sleeplessness has taken its toll, axing bone from collar, scapula from rachis, yardarm from scaffolding, such colicky Hobbesian malice.

Weaver Cloth

before my friend’s father turned on the gas
he trenched the window seams with rags

then skirled the tablecloth to the auld of his jaw
palled in kerosene oil and jam

Tight Skeins

she gathered the wool into a tight skein
moment’s wound into blankets and throws

early winter solstices
frailties

and cold snaps

and the spoon burnt blackened
like the bulbs under her eyes