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2

and I was shoeless, proper shoeless,

stock still in Crosby sand

or some estuary mud down river

or up river with dogs all around,

not stuck there by how cold it was,

it’s never cold enough here, never glacial

but glaciers do float down the river

or move down it, slowly,

glaciers of moments passing

like when a day passes and the same words

wait to be deciphered, transcribed, bladdered words,

proper bevvied, no not bevvied,

just weak of limb, of joints,

like all the melted glacial water

was amassed in my joints, knees

sloshing with unlocked liquid,

sometimes I wake up

and there’s a heat in my legs,

a heat so intense that I’m scared

to straighten my legs, and sometimes

I wake up and there’s a chill in my legs

and in my heart, a chill so intense that I’m scared

to straighten my life for fear of it

snapping, a chill so intense

that I’m scarred by it, cracking ice

cracking all about my body

and see how this soul is weary,

and see how my soles are sore

and my feet weary and I kept walking,

how I dragged myself out of the sand, the mud,

gave the dogs the shake,

gave the bizzies the shake,

so sleet came then,

so sleet came that never was snow,

take that to be an allegory for all the rest,

how I have somehow become

sleet that never can be snow,

like how if you take sleet and only teach

it to be rain or hail or at the most

how to be proper heavy sleet then it’ll never

be snow, there’s snow enough,

there’s too much snow these days and of course

I don’t mean snow, I mean something

similar, no I mean something dissimilar

that should make me hunger

but is settled, doesn’t tear from within

to break free of sand, to cast off rust

and outrun dogs

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About michaeleganpoetry

Liverpool based poet and editor. I have had four pamphlets of poetry published, most recently After Stikklestad (Knives, Forks and Spoons Press, 2010). Penned in the Margins published my first collection, Steak & Stations, in 2010.

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