a poem by David Greaves


once was: sitting at a window, moths pressing against the glass, their thumbprint undersides like something intimate/something obscene, the valley a blacked-out fissure, a shrug

or: remembering a city gone fishtank, sprawling Devonian, pilgrimages to the walls watching scars pale through coil and fluke, from india rubber onto bone, tracing shine, would it ever be enough

or: the inevitability of feathers, rattling quills, blooded feet, did they flute alike in the dawn, if I have to ask

or: luck of the warm blood every time virus rears its monolithic back

or: hearing that the double helix was a dice roll, that the whispers passed across the strands could be picked up and heard and repeated and framed xeno-nucleic, could sound something new

or: was it delusion in the jump cut, will we slow ourselves before the mantle cracks to rest

or: sitting at the same window and a moth on the outside sill dead in a cluster of itself, dry legs, tangled wings, mouthparts to the air and for a second I thought the valley seen from this angle could almost have been an embrace, and for a second I thought protein scrawled out the nowhere name of time


Author Bio:

David Greaves is a 22-year-old writer whose work has appeared in the ‘Verge’ 2011 fiction anthology and the ‘From Glasgow To Saturn’ journal. His prose-poetry pamphlet, ‘Hinged’, was released by the New Fire Tree Press in 2011. He is originally from the North but his accent needs work.


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