in parentheses

When the sky is no longer a safe place the chest of light shall close

upon widows like sodding bones wailing on the quai

to explosions of feathers like the wet petals of carnations

into the sound of the oily sea falling

grace

stones

and fate

for a sin you do not even know

and the judge in place without shape

preaching from a perch atop the bald grey tree

speaking no words you could have known

slobbering like an idiot on parade

your only friend.