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Tommy Randell May 2017
(one)

i wish to tell you about my cage     shadows for bars
the vestige of faraway things      a fractal miscellany
meditating the while      on the dancing of spiders
the tracery of wings      the passage of tongues over bone
the noise of a pool thrown into by a stone

this is what Longing is made from
that it does not wear out!

(two)

the night pivots on a point of light      i have long known myself to be
the skull of a white bear      on a white page      dreaming
with each cranial line, each graph      a past migration to distant lands
but not that such free body diagrams      without text were
a way out of the cage

in the track, grooved, music begins.
in the bone, smoothed, a polar bear dreams

(three)

held in the curve of circling shadows      dark and vacant sockets
ancient enacted motions      enfolded images
unfolding the forging of a lasting alchemy
that with my tongue i call memory      a scrimshaw
of the catalogue of days everything has served to further

to come, a journey down the narrowing path
towards those rumours of things true

— The End —