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(partly for Al Hammond’s garden circa 2002, partly for David Attenborough’s narrations, red in tooth and claw.)

Weep. whoop a tough throb

stumble stone-limbed to the barn.

call for churches in vain

white walls, green leaves

and like angels the bursting in

of mechanical notes.

old fingers into young balm.

crush which sits in the palm.

of self. i heard echoes that were not my own!

in an aeroplane over the sea

breathing like an engine. of self.

star-particles of certainty.

the drifting grasses take off their shoes.

in the darkness

one black eyelash sticks to your damp cheek

somewhere over europe, and heading terribly away

and further.

sleep, and i will weep like a bird for the scope of the sky

weighed down by two super-long tail feathers, tipped with cumbersome discs.


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