The Taste of Metal
Endless trouble, this wind
Here on the river black at this time of year
When shallow ruts glazed with ice crackle.
Digging into memory as if digging into the recesses of a walnut
He looked for love. Love for whom or love for what.
The dog collar of the sun, a beer bottle
And a scrap of a newspaper from the past season.
By the boatman’s shed locked with a hasp
A dog growled. For quite a while now under his tongue
He had felt the festive acrid taste of metal.
And his stomach kept rising in his throat
But there was no throat. Nor anything else.