How He Knew He Was Turning Into Glass

By the curvature of the earth’s spine
visible through his shoes.
By the icicle noises made by messengers
arriving with news of battle.
By the feathers.

By the playing like wind in his hair of exhalations
from the distant leper colony.
By the images of himself repeated in the candelabras
of his erections.
By the dark wate.

By the constellations left behind with particles
of pink and green on the bathmat.
By his flying at night over gardens of coral
blossoming like surgeons’ blades.
By the coldness of his feet.

By the writing in the air above the shoulders
of certain of his friends.
By the misty appearance at dusk of seven stars
best seen by looking away.
By the piles of sand.

Jane Draycott


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