“You could taste the raw / seagull you’d killed and plucked, / the mussels you’d dug from sand, / the jellyfish that wobbled in your / hands as you slobbered it.”
What I can remember are taxis and a long walk by the docks. . .
“Edges: where owls and snow drift / down, spill quietly and stifle”
“Then – surprise – a pale sun picks at a slit / in the paper sky.”
“You won’t be sure of its arrival / until it rolls up to your curb”
New poetry from John Kinsella.
First published in the New Statesman on 23 October 1920.
“And though sometimes the weather is extreme / It seems no more so than when we were young. . .”
I lie in bed until The World at One, / why should my heart go off with an alarm?
Knuckled may lie this dark of earth. . .
"Yet how it waved, in coast’s late light. . . ."
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