Calculate
And if I will raise hands empty of stars,
forgive me.
And if I am through being fed by the rain,
wound round limited material need,
forgive me.
And should I come to the river where questions
are washed away under waternymph murmurs,
of fearful mechanical measures of wealth,
forgive me.
In wind and windfalls; in the imperatives of words;
in front of distant thunderheads, of empty stars
considering their way from me; those moments
you wanted wrapped round the flesh are flesh,
forgive me.
Silence by little silence fills my windfall nest
fortified with shadow for the mud. I am
out of starlight, empty of rain, a calculation
rattled on the riverbed, where the wrong jewels
flash their must-have figures. My sleeping stars,
forgive me.
Andrew Bailey lives and works on the south coast of England, has published poems in journals online and in print, and was a winner of Poetry Review‘s Geoffrey Dearmer Award. A first collection, Zeal, is forthcoming from Enitharmon Press. One of the original editors for the Poetry Archive, he has also worked for The Poetry Society, Poetry International Web and a handful of fringe theatre companies.
