Howard Firkin
Because I woke up early, I went walking,
elbowed by the wind like surly crowds
that weren’t there on the patterned stones of Lund.

The patterned stones of Lund arrange themselves
in semblances of meaning: mica, quartz,
and feldspar punctuate its cobbled grammar.

Grammar. What big Is you have. And what
big Noes. And what a toothless, stinking, shag
pile, matted dog hair rug you turn out being.

You turn out being somewhere near the burnt
stone church of Lund; stained charcoal with the smoke
of something very cold, of something Nordic,
something no one talks about in church.
I only saw because I woke up early.