home journal abt mine outside dreams

Shadowmoss, Tom Branfoot

tracing raindrops down the window
watching them flow and converge
like a scar on the glassy cheek
the contour of a brawl
or a staved glissando played once
and wiped clean by noise

come rutting season
deer edge closer to their limits
we listen for bellows through the traffic
red signs spring up on furrowed roads
over moortops every morning
the fog lifts to black skids and fur scraps

my dad drove into a pigeon once
spinning down the road
to our old home
whiplashed and ashen he said
it burst like a sac of chalk
and feather brightly hidden arias

what does it mean to never have
hit a deer on the motorway
never driven full speed into a flock
of wild geese
that on my bus I see men
stumble into winter’s mouth
and nothing but migration

how many animals did we bury
in our garden by the conifers at dusk
before I learnt how to care about things
that grows white and brittle it took
a while to learn to spray perfume
on the mound to keep the foxes at bay
to allow things time to rest

what does it mean to have never
hit a man to only have been hit
tonguing the gritty blood
of my jaw as if it were a tear
whiplashed and ashen
this dizzying hunger
swelling like nectar

in the loading bay I watch the drifting
men quietly take down the funfair
like it was child’s play
on my lunch break I wondered
if I was strong enough
to dismantle something so tenderly
and bloodless unaware of the bright
pools forming at our feet