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it’s strange that i can call you now an old friend
refer to you as such, like furniture or a farting cat
a fixture that i’ve drawn around myself with age
something safe like a book with each page stained Read the rest of this entry »
I dunno says the boy at the back of the class
with the flat black hair and the flat black glasses
ignoring the raised hands infront of him.
If you’re going to be like that then why bother with living at all?
the grey sky doesn’t glitter.
I sit here and
think about all the men I have sat here with,
including the one beside me.
You were my favourite.
November beach near Dymchurch
On the cusp of saltwater.
On black and tan dunes.
Boats breasting the spires of cooling towers.
Grey-sun sealight mounting the flanks of Dungeness.
Tar-board shinglespray shoring the walls of Prospect Cottage.
Seven ceramic seahorns in the cast of a tusk of root bole.
Gull skull in a wash of flicker grass.
In runnels of seawater. Read the rest of this entry »
He’d read that in some Middle Eastern languages
the words for ‘grace’ and ‘rain’ are the same.
He had only a dim notion of a script, that is like
the movements of insects across muslin,
but he rearranged clouds into verses anyway
and knelt on the pavement, waiting for the sky
to melt into punctuation, wet his lips
with the relief of commas and quotation marks.