Burnside, untitled

As if death was an island:
anyone could go there, on a slow
ferry crowded with eyes
and disembark at villages
distilled to whitewash and cypress.
As if you memorised
the first cicadas
and listened through eternity for change:
the buttermilk coin
melting beneath your tongue;
the same crows wheeling in a wide
hoop; a distant voice
calling your name, worn smooth by constant use,
a word you should, but do not, recognise.


John Burnside

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