New Poem by Stephen D’Evelyn


The window faces out onto gravel.
An ache of waiting settles at your centre.
You are no thing, a gap agape,
the ground beneath honeysuckle, tangled nettle,
the dust of the ground more and more dust,
excess of exhaust, particulate grit.
We breathe in and out up that hill;
automatic comes each fall of a footfall.

Somehow that rhythm, muscle, road, muscle
sends shots of joy through you-gasp, open, recycle.
And then each breath on breath hollows out an O —
pain and address and readiness, shadow and overflow.


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