Kimberly Burwick

These Nails, They Point Upwards

You have come here
from the winetree,
the rowantree, the witchwood.
Cherry and apple caskets go
with a soft song to the dead.
The first house you lived in
goes back to thickets.
Wherever we are we are crying for that,
woolgrass brown in firelight,
ground nuts hard as they are.
I want to see what the partridge sees,
scarlet woodbine bright
in the blackish distance.
We are stripped downward,
closely shorn.


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