Adam Crothers

Three poems


for Jack Thacker

Soundbitesize memories belong not to goldfish
but to us, who are probably not goldfish. Cultish

devotion to culling one tiddly square of lichen.
A view not to my liking: goldfinch – nugget-chicken,

cocoa with notes of jam and custard,
candied pine cone built out of a buzzard –

says Buzz off, biohazard; won’t buzz me in.
An angel’s branding-bastard rusting in Edenic rain.

Of the two finches glimpsed in the garden
I can filch no vocab to farewell the gone one.

This other’s a bother. Riffling Some Trees,
hanging around like wind broken in cemeteries,

picking pinched harmonies to a twig’s first snap:
startle, nut, nettle-sting. Snub. Unsatisfied sap.


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