The Manchester Review
Peter Sirr
Continual Visit
Poetry
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To be loosed like that, streaming through the black countryside
or stopped somewhere, holed up in a ditch, stretched
on a bale under the whistling galvanise
as you forget the thin strands you died with

and darkness floats your whole life down, the whole span
settles on skin and hair, everything you were
like branches come together, a forest
of small touches. Here you are

yourself completely, so completely
your fingertips reach the lake
your body drifts and falls like mist on the fields
and all your hours rain down. . .

There’s not a blade of grass here that doesn’t have your breath on it
before the sun burns you back to darkness again.


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