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                                                      can’t write
                                          not flowing
                           wondering what line to
                           follow as rejoinder staring
                           off trying to be insightful losing
                           the thread fearful that
                           there never was a thread other
                           than the next conjunction …

                           … because I am not where I am
                           I am not in the ground I find myself in
                           smelling the air of the earth moving
                           through the fibre and round the flint
                           feeling my way through probe and take
                           as I rise to the surface to take the first breath

                           to breathe … there
                           a finished piece





awareness & earth & settling wormhole: Birmingham / 030413
being wormhole: the bench / on the fourth sister from / Birling Gap before the / wind-brushed scrub and gorse / and the grey-blue sky / smoothed through the / fishtank-blue horizon to / grey-green sea
breathing wormhole: a few reflections on / keeping your cow / in a large meadow / while walking round / the streets of Horsham
coffee wormhole: portrait … // … reading
Horsham wormhole: dropped ’till you’ve shopped
Sylvia Plath wormhole: poets do neither report nor / walk around enrapt in transport but / ’tis when in writing their worlds are wrought
writing wormhole: ‘I can write …’