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Descent Clouds pulling themselves thin I peer through them smoothing out the map on my knees rumpled fields far down below tumblings quiltings green earths tilting a cathedral spire poking upward ancestors buried there horizon sloping the other way stomach dropping feeling the sinking altitude descending to the map |
Additional Notes:
This poem was published, in an earlier form, in 16 Renford Road, 100 Words, and Longitudes.
This version I edited as I re-wrote it in this space as I went, gutting along. I hope this
is the better version. I deliberately left out punctuation maks, hoping their lack would help
lend a more unworldly feel, relying on breaks and spacing to do the work. I agonised over this,
and am curious to see what anyone else thinks about this.
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