By Dominic Ward
Amongst the rushes, a blade, shining at its edge, kneels
down before me. Crossing over it, I pass on to a mirror of blue, disturbed by streaming forms like ribbons of gut, poison
if I fell under the blade.
The mirror gives way to a grass bank under a willow
tree. Summer this place is named, a fen below tired stables wearing ever still in a sleepy rot in a forgotten down,
ground under foot equine, rain carrying off botulin.
With a magnifying glass from my pocket, I burn a coal
into a driftwood. A pale smoke rises serpentine, up, until the kingfisher sky catches it and it is gone.
The sun has not yet turned autumnal.
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