Mark Leech
Hobgoblin Gate
Glob light fat in the sky late heat's smell
sinking root deep
Last year's leaves first of night
she waits, not buried
not forest waits as concrete waits
for water's finger to push
split it, run white grains
down the valley bottom
Wound in branches breath a fly foot on her tongue's edge
unseen Steps crack round her head
walkers muttering
the path shadows them up She still still
lips tight as bound twigs – keep her second life
in no longer binding fortune
over hope
The path's half moon cups her
hunches her down onto her name
***
Too named by kind and place This is her
overripe, bird raddled
This sun-sink hour walkers slip
pause red moon up rooks calling sleep
A car talks under trees
She bites her solid lips one lit house in her mirror eye
Better to leave (for towns' safe alleys
warm waste from kitchens)
But she's
in the leaf pile stubborn as bone
eyes out for stars
She waits –
one night something fire will come
through wood and dark press itself
in her trunks and branches crack
It rushes hungry out toward the gate
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