Summer remains a stranger in your
grandfather’s village; ruptured yolk like an axe bleeding stickily. We
exchanged the years for pocket watches; linen for clay, as a blanket
for his sodden bones. The ground is breathing –

                                          And isn’t the air a little thicker now
that spring has come and gone? This same air that catches in our
lungs of lead as thunder recalls aircraft rumble?
                                          – As if we have wound up
our hearts like clockwork all these years, garnered endearments:
‘how are you?’ and ‘hope you’re well’.

                                          If only you could
hear those words now – alone in the trembling street, remembering
your last hello: damp, heavy, a dusty echo peeling from a tunnel wall.