BPR 42 | 2015
Winner of the 2015 Collins Prize
So the river froze over
the larks.
So you speed-skate,
blow grief as if thought-
bubble. Ceaseless activity, making
sweat stains
for your brand
of morose. You hammer
hutches for the sly,
belly-
down animal
chewing behind your soul.
Dramatic goddess
is she who knows no limits
to the spread.
She considers drought death
for a commoner.
Sanction, for the foreigners.
Come home.
This season,
eat and sing and drink
with a tongue strapped back
by a taut ribbon, sized.
Lies.