Between thirty-six and forty-six
this chasm-
a bridge always broken-
always fallen.
When the earth’s machinery
grinds on, in loving spite
unasked.
Going beyond
is a matter of luck,
of which overworked angel
happens to be on the incandescent
rota.

This new year
watching Tommy Cooper’s life story
on TV
with a glass of raspberry juice
and sickly dog,
I say to my sister
‘One wish’. She
refuses, citing
the devil
and a rock hard loaf.

I’m different.
See that stone?
I’m going to chew on it,
suck off its corners,
run my cracked tongue down
its arrogant channels,
gorge on its ancient
reluctant chemistry
until i’m filled
again with belief in
my hunger.

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