marks Made

around our pink moon we coalesce
in death and in life and in more of less
all bets off, another certainty begins
and, widdershins, we make utterances -
and marks.

If a man died today to who I couldn't speak,
did poetry and pictures ask him when
and did he have the answers? and then,
courts and sparks?

the unknown might have seemed obvious
and to be polite was trite and doggerel, blues
blue suede shoes, the old school, catholic ties
a glint in the seeing dawg eyes - and a swerve word
or two

a well deserved swerved word - or two.
screw you - you fucking un-deswerving
.... but every pain is not self inscribed
Distanced well wishers hope sympathy into sight.

there's nothing left to do tonight.