Bad Sheep

Midnight’s merely blue,

but me, me, me, I’m

through

and through

sloe, cracked soot-

on-a-boot,

nicotine spat, licorice whip.

You can scratch, scratch, scratch

but I stay underskin true

to ebony, ink, crowberry, pitch;

hoist me up by my hooves

and shake till I’m shook, I’m still

chock full of coke, fuliginous

murk.

O there’s swart in my soul,

coal by the bag,

cinders and slag,

scoriac grit, so please

come, comb

through my fleece with hands pallid

as snow and watch

how they grow tarry, raven,

stygian, ashed—

or, if you wish, clean me with bleach

I won’t

flinch, just char

down to a core of caliginous

marrow,

pure carbon, atramentous,

utterly piceous,

shadowed, and starless,

each clumpity clump

and eclipse of my heart raptly

re-burnishing

a woolgather dark.