Auguste Rodin

A poem


Morning annealed like stone hammered

with the night’s anger into thoughtfulness


But the two memorials next week

my neighbour’s and a friend in Berlin


A friend’s death can change the past

entirely. I’ll travel alone


and someone will take it personally

someone will ask which side I’m on


as though everything comes down to that

to the fault-finding between us


My eyes and hands hold their own disputes

fully formed for days at a time


over all the images sleep has smashed

before the morning can shake them off


like too much thinking, too much loss

and crouch forward toward its fate