Rory Waterman

It lists beneath a sycamore
swashing in high summer leaf,
and takes a hit from underneath:
a root knuckle bulges along the floor.

Its eight loopholes have fissures, sprouting
thistles; through each the wheat is fattening.
“What’ s this thing   for?” A starling sings
its wind-up song. The sun slides out.

And this taste of piss, that Fetherlite
slumped in the corner, those Holsten cans,
the markered slogan
do not try to answer. Might.