Time is the matter of the day,
Sculpting a hagstone out / Eroding it slowly
out of our iliac crests, cones under your
bare feet from the random forest
sprouting out – a rusted nail's stigma
of an event.
The first joint
The last headlights
set on the night sky:
erasing the diamonds of the poor
The first week of February ends with haloes
under our shirts / Balmy smells, smiles –
cordial the omen pre-echoes
for the lesser and for the trodden
Time as a balding statement in its best
physique / Its resilience of a wave
a deforestation flood
tearing down your home
Self-Checkout
Stelliferous tachypsychia
here it comes again, the anamnesis
the hoar craving to write torrentially
to glitch and wait to say goodbye,
and
there's a choir shouting at me from the tills
their speaking in tongues my weekly communion
My mouth is lonely, internecine
my sweet tooth is growing impatient
Sign off the times, tomorrow,
I will look up all the sunsets
_______________
Luca Bevacqua lives in Edinburgh. He is the author of Echolalia (If a Leaf Falls Press) and co-author of 100 Linguistics Poems (Gauss PDF).
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