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Poetry from NHI publications
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In the asylum on a winter's night pale crickets cheep among the heating pipes. Now is the slow time of stones, their hot creation and cold erosion where a beetle can plod on indiscreetly, through dry leaf litter under dry cracking trees. Along squeaking asylum corridors endlessly curving, in boxed ceiling conduits, among looped colour-coded cables, unseen crickets cheep. The echoes are quick and sibilant, without focus. As if here there wasn't, already, confusion enough. |
SAM SMITH |
from New Hope International Writing Vol.16 #3 Next poem Previous poem |
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