Saturday Morning


It’s always false spring somewhere and most of all in  your

brain with its painful thaws.  Get up and away from it – to

milk from the freezer blown up to a yellow bagpipe: a

rimed stone splitting its sides and burning your palms. To

sun broaching the salt-blurred windows.  To live cockles in

brine, mumbling sand and bubbled spires of mucus.  At least

half of you’s still below the surface, probing the pillow with

xylem fingers, and so wishing for a body to match yours that

you would even love your enemy, who for fuck’s sake holds

you, when you meet in this dream.


Jen Hadfield

(From Byssus)

This masterpiece  is a prose poem in the original layout, justified on both margins)