Tim Craven

Issue 13 • April 2014

Your arctic hands throw glass and shatter
The limbs of oaks in a kind violent manner.

A sugar, a silence, an evidence 
Of dog, a cast of gangs, a brilliance

Of hands in bobble hats. Here’s the sign
Of Father’s slow homecoming

And fatherless slow oblivion of white
Covers of us, erasures of the beautiful

By the beautiful, versions of water,
Versions of cold folded like A4 card,

Once, twice, four times to prove each one
Of us is a flake and drift and blue.