with Mark Howard
The grit in my eye concerns me
Not as grit
Not of earth, nor of sea
Of building
Of bone
Of memory cancelled
Of memories raised
Of ash under lids
Smoke in the lashes
Vistas collapsed
Streets with names
But no faces
Silence, dust settles
The past upon
My skin
Leaves rustle
In gutters
Turbid rivers
Feather and scale
Of building
Of bone
Of skies exposed
The veils
Of wall
Keeled and knelt
Knuckles bruised
Buckled
Scraped
Steel and rib
The grit
On my tongue
Concerns me
Not as hunger, nor as meal
But as word
And the spreading
Of the word
Written with Mark Howard
© Mark Howard & Brendan Bonsack
November 2014