Past pupils fall off the screen at times and you
have to go back to where you saved them.
When the file doesn’t come up you imagine
them singing or cursing as they fall and
all summer I looked but could not find
a word to put under the churn but still
the butter formed, yellow blobs lifted from whey
like chances that would not come again.
Such colour oozing from the soil and birds
never dropped a note as armies were sent out
knowing no destination and I was pushing
an old love away by holding tighter
but the sun would not stop and those who went
to bed had to get up and even in dreams his face
wasn’t his own but we’re left to the mercy
of the morning and only a small patch
of blood on the road but no stain. Black won’t
show on black. Shop flowers rust in the ditch
and you’re down in the hold not knowing if it’s
day or night or if there’s another soul alive
and all you can do is to keep pumping.