Poets

I don't know you, you don't know me, but if we want to carry on we need to make like mountaineers who tie themselves together to survive their clunt and grapple

This is not about burns or hedges. There will be no gorse. You will not notice the ceaseless photosynthesis or the dead tree's thousand fingers,

Car like a comet, breaking all the lights, we speed towards waiting rooms and vending machines. The anaesthetic takes time to empty your head so it becomes a stadium and the game postponed.