In a Dead Tone: 4

She twisted her body in
the corridor to embrace me
as my children slid past:
they gave no mind to the
occurrence, perhaps being
distracted by the sound of
rain within hollow walls
or a treeful of birds
in one corner of the room.
That morning, four black
dustbin bags had assumed
the outline of a sphinx
at the edge of the shingle:
now the oracle laboured
to transmit anything beyond
the image of a turf road
with bones on either
side, some unfamiliar small
animal weaving along it.
When the querent departed,
she arched over him to push
the hat up on the back
of my head, and so brought
to completion a gesture
initiated in 1981.