Emerging from black tunnels
any man could weave a heavenly cause
as high as one by the tarmac.
They watch the lineside trees
especially interested in the season;
pluck me how lovely life would be
when I walk easily.
But see, SPACE Suppose they blow
on a moonless night of searching
into hell for any number of human bodies,
for a song, for art representing
the execution of long fingernails
desire in a woman
and me naked as senses
that create a stirring in there
Don't wear costumes which can do nothing
to lose the ball rolled down to keep him.
Provide better manners.
She dreams of courage the world shall know.
This poem was published a few years ago in issue 5 of Keystone a magazine out of Oxford. It was edited by Tom Chivers who runs penned in the margins
The Little Ice Age by Brian Fagan
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