And mud swallows with throats that twist and wings
that beat and on their sung song the summer
follows and in the summer life is good.
Pilgrims from far isles see where out west
the larks mark holy spots and call them blessed.
I would never be a pilgrim. Priesthood
gives no salvation. I am a sinner
gratefully. Flesh is sacred. We’re sucklings,
fucklings, bullgods at stud, oak dappled all.
Swallows or spits, inhale antique weed. Dark
with eyes and gold with hair slam back blackball
whiskey. High it may be that the skylark
sings for us. There is not else save a shy
wee thing turning in the brightening why.
memories of my ghost sista 