Trooper’s Hill

The tall chimney
seems as though it could collapse at this moment.
Rough, sharp,
something of it beyond language,
the language that I write
existing in the frame of things previously thought,
the words an expression
that I don’t take it for granted.
Put there, standing there
falling back on itself
through itself
like breath, like something simple.

The words re-read
each line moving away from and toward
the ones that buffer it.
The single tower
made by today,
the wind touching my left cheek
and my chest,
the dried heather around me
and the voices,
“Fucking hell, man!”
the voices.
The sound of the M32
disfigured and stretched by the distance
the sounds which make me think 
of where they come from
how they are positioned. 
The giggle which has a different colour from
the answering voices
and so moves me, differently
taking me apart, differently. 

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