Doctors with steeplejack fingers
Running up his broken wrists
Snapped forward like crowfeet
Blueblack and swollen tight
They nimbly fixed up
Bone weathervanes
He could tell you arm raised
When the rains are coming
The joint packed like a full church
So close to the wet earthy dead
The priest’s wet jesus breath
Mumbling the old myths:
The cows are sitting in the churchyard
The dogs out are moving like madness
Can you smell the rising glade and bog?
The storm is coming, the bones know
