Our consonants tilled the dry fields
with trenches and then furrowed hope,
and when we screamed, when they mourned,
we all placed pebbles on his tombstone.
Out on the pitch, a vixen carried her kits,
so stealthy, those silhouettes, dark knotted
like unblown roses. I dreamt we slept. We
didn’t. At two o’clock, the coroner arrived.