An obsession of mists stands inside the city opens light to the light. I have never
seen the street like this as rooms of haloes until the haar came faltering.
It got dark while we were in the cinema
as new foam lost from sea having never known land
to find it hobbled
unmoving water once now shapeless as gloves.
It is November in Edinburgh.
No one told the skies. Beside you
I archived the weather
left white as ox tongue: itself a calcified memory
of what it used to take from shore.
It phases almost teenage fickle as a cat-mouth. I could ask
I thought you liked the sun? or is that too yesterday? I cannot keep
up with you vaultless as reflection head craned back
saying fog from other seas tastes of the seas they’re from.
Open each streetlight the lid of myself.
Like a Politician
Nothing is true
to your picture of it
How much is gifted to shape yourself a vase
Your lungs their glass-ground opacity
I traced sun in a bell sky
hot enough to blow a cylinder
In my view a keyhole
covers the blue covers my belly
I am inside the door without a side to wait on
and never know what goes after
How much can be made unmade
with a bellow
You see right to the bulb of me
you built it that way
Rebecca Ferrier won the Bridge Award in 2020 and funding for her debut novel
from Creative Scotland in 2021. Her recent poetry has been published by Lighthouse and west word revue (forthcoming). Her latest prose can be found with Gutter and The New Gothic Review (forthcoming).