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