Snakes had been let loose in his life
and cleared the surrounding area.
What was far had never been so close.
What was close proved unsafe for trespass.
Things fell apart when he touched them.
People seemed to melt away like soap.
Logbook entry:
Tomorrow we sail The Bitter Sweet.
On this day, Shelley orders his boat.
A fire is laid, letters sent. It was done.
Let us pray events find their level.
No one was blocking moves for a sequel.
Everyone knew that doors would soon
be opened by force, clearing every room
all the way down to Jericho.
Blow trumpets blow. The hunt is riding by,
the long road back a tangle of wire
on racks of signalling equipment from the last war.
Rolling news and screen crawlers lay eggs in minds
strung out like lightbulbs across makeshift settlements
each hatching creatures bright and cryptozoic.
You think you know where they’re coming from.
You collide with large objects in your sleep.
How much of this have you not seen before.
Tim Cumming
Pic: Rupert Loydell
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