what turns up is not
always what we expect
among the new potatoes
cranberry glass sharded
porcelain the banded trunks
rattling like teeth in steerage &
England’s vanishing coast
a fond green smear
in the kitchen garden
a necklace restrings itself
gradually thirties silver
grubbed from this mingy soil
what sort of epitaph in
these thin bright droplets
soil turned beyond powder
foundation stones in this garden
refusing to give way
go down
