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Christian Ward
The Sea
Walking down the street,
I empty my pockets
of the sea I was looking
after for you. Mussels
come tumbling first,
cracking open their castanet
shells on the pavement.
Acres of seaweed and oysters.
Taking a deep breath,
I pour an ocean into the middle
of the road. Islands of people
and cars bob in the newly created sea.
Somewhere amongst this
is an old trawler. You are inside,
sending signals back to a lighthouse
forgotten in a trouser pocket.
The Atoll
The boat approaches the atoll,
a line of broken finger bones
aged and veined like a crone.
There are things
we are supposed to measure:
the density of ancient turtles,
and null manta rays, serene
as ocean liners on a painted sea.
We are cartographers measuring
in numbers meaningless
to anybody but me and god.
And then, when we finally
arrive, the Atoll decides to sleep,
an emperor slumbering third eye
blind.
All gods need sacrifices
to be appeased.
Praise the Wolf
Packs of wolf-cloud loitered
around Battersea Power Station
when my train hurtled past.
I’d lost her that Thursday
my body bleeped to the world
in a Morse code of sweat.
I made a cut on my chest
with her photo on my phone,
inviting the wolf-cloud to eat,
wrap myself in their rain
and feel their rush hurtling
me back to the earth, to the dark.
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