Sport 40: 2012
meteorite
meteorite
in your garden, perhaps,
between the tomato vines
and the carrots, just as
you’re getting the coffee on
and recalling the farmer who ran
outside, hearing a burglar,
to stare out through a hole in the roof of his barn
into the circle of an older
flashlight, the verger who instead
of daffodils
discovered a lump of black, a foundling left
on the threshold with the chuckle
of youthful heavens deep inside it,
cattle lowing in pain in the dawn,
the milk gone sour, a man coming out
of a café to find a ton
of scrap-metal his car-key still fits—
or that it was always the beginning
of some cult, or the moment the plague sets
n, on a monday morning
when the neighbour’s dog suddenly
starts to bark and you go to the door
somewhat older, but hardly
old, and no place else but here.