Lure, Lapse
There is no style in sleep,
only the sense of nethers startled
up from the supple interior.
Guarded handsomely, I am awake
(for a baker of course in love
with a painter will mix too hard)
and preening in the lord-loud and ecstatic doubt
purchased from all last nude cringing.
Dull bronze cowbells for hands
is what I want.
The serious honeycomb leaking,
I would streak you with yellow bruises.
Your garland, my shaky lamb,
we are close in this
slow evening gown,
we are growing down,
our winter-slung bodies fooled
and necklaced with furious morning.
Page(s) 44
magazine list
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- Cannon's Mouth, The
- Chroma
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- Fabric
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- French Literary Review, The
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- Interpreter's House, The
- Iota
- Journal, The
- Lamport Court
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- Magma
- Matchbox
- Matter
- Modern Poetry in Translation
- Monkey Kettle
- Moodswing
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- North, The
- Oasis
- Obsessed with pipework
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- Painted, spoken
- Paper, The
- Pen Pusher Magazine
- Poetry Cornwall
- Poetry London
- Poetry London (1951)
- Poetry Nation
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- Poetry Salzburg Review
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- Private Tutor
- Purple Patch
- Quarto
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- Review, The
- Rialto, The
- Second Aeon
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- Shearsman
- Smiths Knoll
- Smoke
- South
- Staple
- Strange Faeces
- Tabla Book of New Verse, The
- Thumbscrew
- Tolling Elves
- Ugly Tree, The
- Weyfarers
- Wolf, The
- Yellow Crane, The