Remember that is not

Somewhere people stay

Forever, like a hospital where outside is just

A flatland of geometric insects, un-

able to think of the idea of looking

The other way up. There is the love of distance,

And the delicate wind. New forces for the walls

& linoleum to hold tight, unconvinced—but the self-

sown can never be

Decorative.

If you blame consumers you’re not seeing

The bigger picture; a cornice of mountains down

Mainstreet at noon, high-night

And after the morning. The war is absent; it is

Too small—but in the geology you can see

Time has passed here . . . Decompositional progress

Of white blood like black milk

From a still makeshift

Rusted heartland—ribcage flagged open

Like a ship cut on the reef of ocean-tin.

The air is full

Of railway slide on mould & dredging river.

The place is all measured and blasted for

Flux of ornaments, remember

That is not the gorse. A stained glass window,

Burning perfume below a clock missing

The years it doesn’t know, and still

The orbital tilling.

Chris Holdaway

Chris is a poet, editor, linguist and co-director of Compound Press (compoundpress.org). In August 2014 he took up residence at the University of Notre Dame MFA programme.