by Ben M Rymer
Tuesday, October 01, 2002
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Stars fail and fall back to their origins
Like wishing-coins flooded under milk.
The valley evaporates and casts off
Its midnight veil: distant gravestones slope
And jumble in their overgrown plot lit
Not now by nights foggy scoop of chalk
But its flaming siamese relation.
Is up; the immediacy of daybreak
Melts nights apprehension
And drains it with the sky’s pigment.
No cars yet. Everything’s safe and solid
As a church pew. The loneliness is perfect:
I want to be everywhere to take it all in.
Nothing moves. The world is still
As a coal seam, waiting to be mined.