ISSN 1758-6488
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Continual Visit Poetry |
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Where have we been? The window frames a possible garden
through which we seem to be walking. And even if
the place is empty, even if not a speck has travelled
there’s no gainsaying the clarity of these trees, the tune
of the gravel and the hard grey sky of the gathering rain.
Something sends back print after print. The air
opens and there’s a sudden reach from here to there
the nape of your neck peals in the light.
The nape of your neck peals in the light
and I must be, must be gathered inside it
with some kind of tune. The words are sewn
into the stone wall; the shrubs, the slender gates
commemorate them, the sharpening air, our skin
like stone we carved ourselves on, and faded from.
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