The Grief Sparrows

I am working on a small collection of poems about my son, who is missing presumed dead near Garmisch in Bavaria. Here the first draft of a new one.

shrapnel of a black heart,

they pick at worm-strings,

pulling out curves from

the green above the sleepers,

like punks they barge and

rotate like bits of children

while I stutter in grief and ice;

bricked in, walled up, dead down.