Gasp
When there was a certainty lodged in this head
it proclaimed little fiefdoms of should or should not
as if to reassure itself of who it was who spoke
in case a chance glance at a shoulder-focussed
mirror might say: no you are not. Smoke
gathers heavy on the horizon like a leftover
Dickensian uncle, poor lungs grasp
at breath, there might/ must have been some
point to say point say what what point?
--
David Bircumshaw
Website and A Chide's Alphabet http://homepage.ntlworld.com/david.bircumshaw/
The Animal Subsides http://www.arrowheadpress.co.uk/books/animal.html
Leicester Poetry Society: http://www.poetryleicester.co.uk
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