No longer secret like an over-sized hoodie,
red with the eye of God, a tattoo
of the silver Lion on its back; the carcass
it rides, missing a heart nor recalls
when it slipped out.
Like a curtain in the night
between its folds, in dim-light something
large and dark living inside
the body encased in stone unable
to crack or cry.
We are given a line, a small plot
a field whose fences have rotted,
a threadbare jacket with gifts
in its two shallow pockets; gifts
we held so quiet and loved