Poem in Which We Are Struck

The quilt, incised with creases – our trample-lines to here –
and our bodies, curled into a tiny circle
in the backwards telescope of dark

and above us, the iron moon swung high,
a hammer end-on, its unreadable face.
It seems to take an age to fall,

but it falls. The night blinks
and we topple from the bed, new-minted,
accurate up to the crack of the voice.

Rosie Breese

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s