Not a fusillade, seizure of moment

veering nearly with vicious relish

 

toward so much discomfort or battle

as if to the sound of gravel, the sense of biting

 

onto the just too cold, just too bitter,

the squeezing of dry sand with autumn knuckles.

 

Something arcane, a surety:

unspoken but harsh, like stark amaranths.

 

The potency of allusion, spaces between lines,

the silence between bullets

 

that leaves you waiting…

 

 

 

This is something that sounds like it knows what it’s saying, it seems quite confident about itself, but actually it probably doesn’t. I certainly can’t tell now, that’s for sure. Almost certainly, I didn’t know what an amaranth looked like (the leaves, which I like better than the flowers, look like that above). It was published in ‘Staple’ magazine, so must have fooled at least one person.

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