The soil I’ m walking over comes
from deeper: a fire had done it in,
a stewpot had suddenly popped
and its contents streamed
out wave over wave until
it reached the water, until the sea
called it a day and struck back
with a counterwave. Stony nightblack
dreambarren land where tawny
thyme wrestles up and thistle is stitched
to every bare thing. Over this malevolence
I carry you in me,
sevenmonths deadchild, out to the sea