John Kinsella
Fog and Linnets
Vaporised skin cells, almost,
drop sheet, not the sweat
of the wheatbelt, though grain
is grown out on the fens.
Pulls together the particles
that won’t reconcile, liminal
syntax composed of sleep-
residue — linnets becoming
rarer, the poison, the top-dressing.
Fog, and what it covers up.
Swing high, swing low, the chatter
of the linnet growing rarer.
The fog is the ur-body,
the texture is flesh or a feather.
Which? The murky strains,
the classic banter: rarer, rarer.
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