I know this place
I know those flowers and these fields
and the stinging whip of goose grass
on naked legs
I know this sky
so clear and boundless
or so it seems
skulking beneath the infinity of blackness
but this place is not now
it is but a memory
that comes on like kerb
on a bike with no brakes
lever pulled back to the rubber grip
eyes on stalks for the impact
I lie before and after
in this place I know better than your face
and for ten minutes
I stare
or perhaps it is ten lifetimes
or perhaps I stare not all
for the things I see
are like the novels unwritten
in the blind fury of a dice roll
they rattle
so vivid at each turning
but cone out
purely by chance
come to the road
come to the road
come to the lane
and follow the path
see the sun shining
so blinding white
welcome
The Blue Book
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