We are always the feeling of the end
approaching steady as sunrise, you see
that's the mechanic, ever cresting wave
to your lost ones as we go into the air
to meet with what exactly and who you loved
are gone now do not blow them kisses.
In our new bodies the soul keeps single focus.
Meanwhile we rose, dusted ourselves
stared to the sky where vanishing charms
clouds grew thick and if this is the desert
plain forever we may no longer live
near to one another forced apart
in fearful rigour, but your features glowed to me.
You were completely beautiful, us both, more so
for twilight stormed down a harvest of colour
weak in our arms the sound of the flowers.
Verity Spott. Poet. 'He'd make a big show of sticking the two torn halves in his wallet. When we buried him, Frank and I tossed the last two halves he gave us into his grave. Here ' 'Between the two torn halves of my soul are cities and climates' 'Place those two torn halves of the map together again and you are re-enacting the history of the Silurian to Devonian periods' 'The two torn halves promise but never deliver full restitution'
Saturday, 7 December 2024
Through a Crack in the Ground
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