untitled (february 2020)

Modicums, only modicums
Perhaps a weary transparency, too,
And a sprinkled angel’s voice
Raining onto an orphan village
Put in a line at the last minute,

Perhaps a sail-boat in a sluice
Trapped and always returning
Or a flag mistakenly draped over a table
Stained by you with hot conscience.

Perhaps all of the above and nothing else,
Perhaps a face full of words, really
A face full of hands
And perhaps it shows to be kind.

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