Beside the black poplars
my father ran against his own spectre’d brain his sadness his cramped hunger cabinet
kicked the water-logged soccer ball through the acre and back
the dead translate our bodies as reeds voice a marsh
find their way back like fugitive monks from a night we’ve never seen
tucked beneath their robes the books they bear are their bodies
their fingers are long shadows their cheeks scuffed as sitting-stones
their shoulders torqued like St. Sturgeon suspended from his tree
and feet grandmother’s
and feet worm-worn spars of wood
and feet father’s feet his mother’s tributary
the perennial bones
unfurl grass through the grass
- The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Noctuary by C. Rees - August 7, 2026
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- The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Noctuary by C. Rees - August 6, 2026



