Holes in Its Pockets

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
and lost.

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