Funeral day

The register in the gullet is a fist. Held by the muscle
of unmourned things a duct aches, with the prayer's
shudder in a nook of the bone. In the gloved cup

the liquor is brine, and smooth as a smooth on the tongue.
The breath is as shallow as the loss is deep. Each
salt corner leaks, when the flower-seller says

thousands are going to that funeral. An eagle
spans the intersection of Swanston and Flinders. The fist
unclenches in its felt. Feathers are the clocks' hands.


Anne Elvey (Victoria)