This thing

There's this thing:
monumentally grown
with rock deep roots, finely browed,
solid, as it says.

And then there's another thing:
bent over, wind blown,
whistling. Sometimes no, often, maybe,
tremendously wriggly.

Then there's a third thing:
whippet hurt, each premise,
lacked, each longing
promised, elsewhere.

There's this last thing:
splashed by the boat,
it asks for land. You give it.
The thing huddles, firebound.

There's a thing in my
pocket. I take it out and tease
its hirsute vanity. It bites,
a scrap of skin and fur.

This is my favourite thing.

Trips you up, this word

Just a word, really
With an odd structure, not mine
A maelstrom, there

Presents gravity all lines
And whirlpools, and signs of deeds done.
I am sucked thin

Where angelfish fly
Giggling, incrementally
The rock path by firelight

hut, house, knife, shout, blush,
smoke, car, rout, rush, light, lush, lout
sound
it
out

In this coat that we found last winter
Wrapped around, I remember.