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November 29, 2011

by Andrew Bailey

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.

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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.

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  1. December 1, 2011 at 6:41 am
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