We never went to the waxed church
preferring pledged whitewash walls,
until standing at the sink more often
we never went to church at all.
I still resent the cutting roads
stripping out hawthorning lanes.
The penny faced past dull clinking
pigtails snipped. The shining came
breadcrumbed sludge symbolising
that trampled moon, more personal
the squired stars, now close at hand;
retorted can, the plastic kit.
We'd tingle tongue the cattle fence:
unbruising whitened knuckle clenched
to fight the drowning urge to piss
swelling up from grey numbed toes.