POETRY.


WHERE EDGES ARE


She is effulgent in the dark halls of town.

She is listening but they are hearing.

Her skin is blistering and sharp with sparks.


She is listening for the crick of grass underfoot.

They are hearing her heavy paces.

She is straining to feel the hum of the air.


They are hearing her voice wailing

like a warrigal. She is being

quiet to count the breathing.


They are hearing the stertorous cracks

of her fine pure voice. She sings knife prising

the clenched hills shrieked and sharp with danger.


They are being calm and combing their hair.

She is brittling the unseen strings connecting.

They are wishing softly in the afternoons.


She is testing with her naked feet

where the oyster edges are.



By Chris Mansell



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POETRY.

POETRY.

POETRY.