There is a wall I lean

              at           when

              the ice breaks apart      the house.




              knives of wood              rum

              and milk.                         I bite hands. 

              Clean in planes                            intimate

              with hooks       pounded

              falling air. Sun went badly        hail

              slapped up        asps. There just


              are no straight lines left.            It

              loved the earth but could not say.



              could not type.              Or axe

              shut from peeling bark.


by Matthew Johnstone, from Eater, Of Mouths

Originally appeared in Concis