[from Proud Flesh] Poem by John Wilkinson

They bash their fists on the asphalt playground, as if
they could crush the stone below; soft fists splinter
A) ache, B) pale white secure, C) deep white safeline
Sparks from the mica fan into veins, & tar-thick milk

shrouds the quartz, jade, or plumps that rose-quartz
hollow under its bitumen teat. We turn through shades
but click in the small white statue smelling of milk
with human dirt, with a sweet taint. O my boat, beat

downstream in the tunnel, your pennants & gypsy décor
nosing the sedge already for cute traces of light; ray
out as emerging you leave your heart behind. Children
beat this vault with their fists, & their fists bleed