THE DRUM

for Anselm Hollo

First resting
then resisting
a little is
is a little
spark for the cauldron
that lines our skull
so what if the good
days should strike us dumb?
Is the heart’s drum not more
lovely for the devastation of silence?
We form a white circle
of these word-whittled teeth
to spit for grief
into the seething pines
that still unhewn
know only drowning
of sparks
and slacking
of the drum
and reverse it
We pull our tongues
into taut red swathes
until the flaws of language
stand out pale and beaded
from a thick and bloody lawn
so to be lopped into sequins
and placed on the boughs
so the pines can shimmer
in their pricking resistance
and the drum too
can grow taut
across the cauldron
and noisily
all that
sober material will
spin and writhe
in the shimmering pines
that do shimmer harder
as the heart batters on