James McGoram
shoot up hill
There’s an empty sky
by which
we say
a fine day
my eyes close up
against
the blanket light
Swimming I discuss,
in moderate terms,
how heat like this dries the blood
so thick.
Looking skyward
(for the hole)
sick of the drug,
I say skin me, and be done with it.
Like directions on a stolen map,
The ragged cracks of
Common sense spell out
These mistakes;
That steel,
Burnished,
Now dying of rust and lying inveterate
Could be described with such emotion,
The way my face aches with the task,
Having heard good poets and still laughed.
Page(s) 90
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