fires and fills; informs the heart;
the heart, the chest and lungs;
the lungs, the unhesitating throat;
space fills the head and voice:
and then, no longer pupil,
but the teacher of the world;
hearing from the centre of that sound
that sound itself may bring about all things.
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the brain a gray worm
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another light bulb gone.They last for years,go as the leaves fall;perhaps they too feel old.
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‘It’s joost not FURR! ’…Whingers all? Ah – but listento the sound behind those words…this is not the ‘Yokshire’ voice,standing square on the earthas if it always owned it…this is the sound of centuries –two at least – of men’s sense of injustice:forced off the herding on the lovely hills,the fresh cleansing air, orthe market…
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He looks out at you from the photograph
thick lenses would place your imagein a plane you don’t inhabit;like a fish that in an aquariumsuddenly swims direct toward youstopping at the glass to stare a moment:was there a meeting? Whatare you to the fish?So, nothing. Then next day,he’s propping his bike against the wall,bending down to take off his cycle clips;caught so close,…