Saturday, April 2, 2016

A Stuart Rawlinson Poem


Corner to corner, warping
Fabric ‘til position is lost
And the folds mismatch on
Their uniform graphs.

The taut gauze finds its own
Missing dead-ends. We grab
Our own corners and
Shake the stitches out from

The unseeable serrations of
Soft eider down.
Once left and right;
Once propagating waves

Towards each other which
Clash and thud like silencers
And spray at the coast halfway.
The new dressing, tight and snug

Holds sleep in a soporific
Sling. The night gently floats
Down and fits square over each limb.
The moon, keeping its distance, dims.


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