Size / / /

for Sovay

He is not a lord like Milord Byron;

None of us is beneath his notice.

He sits in bushes and spies on us.

When the moment is right we go into his sack.

He empties that sack in a dreary garden

Where souls are planted in long straight rows,

Sending up leaves as thick as your hand

And a stalk with clusters of shiny, black fruit.




Tony Grist (http://poliphilo.livejournal.com) was born in London and lives in Oldham, England, on the edge of the Pennine hills. He keeps rabbits and likes to take photographs of churches.
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4 Nov 2024

“Did you know,” the witch says, “that a witch has no heart of her own?”
Outsiders, Off-worlders {how quickly one carves out a corner of the cosmos, / claims a singular celestial body as [o u r s] in the scope of infinity}
Lunar enby folks across here
Wednesday: The 2024 Ignyte Award for Best Novel Shortlist, Part Two 
Friday: A Place Between Waking and Forgetting by Eugen Bacon 
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By: KT Bryski
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