by Amelie Maurice-Jones

blackbird nest: bruised honey
holds all eggs which un-
half in hollowhold

when no men ferret for
thrills and this

is Tuesday, now nobody
is watching
sheds a skin. every tree
shuddering off rust in the
shops which shut

coloured shutters. the day
hides behind foggy
eyelashes, i backtrack the
road and step around

the meek and tired moss,
which tries to crack the quiet
of a shy river. our warm moon,

the closest thing to a king,
cradled in shamrock.

horns and the angry train fix,
iron, even. and crow caw

all eclipsed in the claptrap
of a single wing.