38th by Charlie Baylis


     After Owen Sheers

My wasted youth, misremembering
maps, bowling with the farmer's daughter, home
for a long white glass of milk

poured to the floor, or four more
thimblefuls of vinegar, wine, water; racing the river
through the woods, I tripped over

a chipped chit of bone, jutting
from the earth like the wing of an angel. Spooked
I walked away as if wounded 

the next day I returned with my boys
we found a monochrome mosaic of skull, arm and shoulder
fear shaking the surface of our souls

these relics of young