by Paul Casey

for John W. Sexton

the slop migrant vortex of turf muck
near swallowed him whole one grey farm day

he said, but for a bubble of air
caught in his jacket and but

for the tight wrists of Fionnán the wiry,
oh purple god of moor grass, he was a sure goner

not an ear within range, nor an echo
of those frantic syllables survived

one time, one near took a full horse
he said, but for a prehistoric farmer

vicegrip on the tailbone
as another held the head

the black mud swallowed four megalithics
then belched in final surrender

bogholes in the city are invisible
people just can’t see

when you’re up to your lower lip in one
eyes everywhere, and so few hands