Lost Language
October, and leaves fall down. One feels the world go by.
First frost. And a licking sound
Just under the earth,
great wheels, or a sluice of some sort.
Sunlight thin as Saran Wrap.
A licking sound, the suck and bump of something against something.
One lives one’s life in the word,
One word and a syllable, word and one syllable.
As though ice and its amulets could rise and rest us.
Whatever it is we look for is scattered, apart.
I have a thirst for the divine,
a long drink of forbidden water.
I have a hankering for the dust-light, for all things illegible.
I want to settle myself
Where the river falls on hard rocks,
where no one can cross,
Where the star-shadowed, star-colored city lies, just out of reach.
Page(s) 63-64
magazine list
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- Cannon's Mouth, The
- Chroma
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- French Literary Review, The
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- Interpreter's House, The
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- Journal, The
- Lamport Court
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- Magma
- Matchbox
- Matter
- Modern Poetry in Translation
- Monkey Kettle
- Moodswing
- Neon Highway
- New Welsh Review
- North, The
- Oasis
- Obsessed with pipework
- Orbis
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- Painted, spoken
- Paper, The
- Pen Pusher Magazine
- Poetry Cornwall
- Poetry London
- Poetry London (1951)
- Poetry Nation
- Poetry Review, The
- Poetry Salzburg Review
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- Private Tutor
- Purple Patch
- Quarto
- Rain Dog
- Reach Poetry
- Review, The
- Rialto, The
- Second Aeon
- Seventh Quarry, The
- 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