THE FROGMORE POETRY PRIZE 2002
Have you forgotten the shape and weight of it?
Of course – you were nothing when the soul of the law
was called back to the house. Cold, grey church.
And here a rite is laid out: flowers,
A switch is made to flick twisted coins
Chanting constructs the building, its
eaves and steeple
from the ground up, not the top down.
Voice locks with voice
Windows of clear pitch allow light into
A chicken’s head is cleft and
the jaw examined:
The calf is all oomph and nod, but at
rite’s end he is lost.
An elder sibling steps in as guide and
The temple of sound scatters, leaving
only the empty space:
It was a very beautiful bone.
It is necessary to call the soul of
the forest back
length of cheap white string – sacred.