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O hearts fat with custard, and sweet,
forgive that I move at all
and signal my coming with rain:
forgive the rusted rasp
of all things: the venom-wet wasp
nesting in newspaper,
tenant of scabrous ink;
the starved blur
of the bird pecking nothing
upon the ground, singing
suet and sugar-water, worm and dust.
Were I to forget you
the world would fatten
and the hinges swing free;
rust in rills would run
from where you stood,
shocked still by dawn.
O mouths rimmed in blood,
if I left you
I would return to feed you
black hanks of kelp
from each fist. And again
you would lose the whole
of what was gained
those days I swam away from you
like an echo, dead
to your ears and never
to return, this tipper
of urns and master of mold,
this god of the slack
figure and swollen belly —
O lambs, O marrow melting like wax.
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