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Across, Across

 

                    empty seats across 

the corridor of water drinking sky, trees

finding foothills for vertical boards, 

washed grass yes 

and here and there a roof 

among the gnarled homes building

with bent arms staring, 

                    all the heights we find

pressed on the fringes of the river,

our brochures, electrolysis 

of chocolate and minds, 

of full and empty ferries, of

frames folding eyes and a shell

half-buried in a cliff in a bay;

                    stacked chairs, squares of asphalt 

stepping down to playing fields 

slumped against the grass;

a native maze we're lifting

and a resting autolabyrinth 

of oils and odours rising,

surprising, reminding us of voices

that we hear below the door. 

 

Go to Ben Walter's profile to read more poems