Lucy Anderton


whispered. Untrans-
latable: That shove

off course—like ink
into milk. Like dementia
in the cold

shoes of soldiers. Now: hack
off a scrap of

it about your ankle
bone: You say: Under
ground level we are

all the click of knuckle
loosened to wood—ready
for the crush

of night—the fall, yes,
the falling and then
the push—that gasp

will catch us
too late: You say: To say
Despair is thin—
this said while we watch
that pigeon
stepping, stepping

in the road
a circle round her
soft dying mate.     






I am examining that step along the eyelash that separates two of some worlds. This examination is turning out to be an all-day, probable life, venture.