(after Poor Tom by Tom de Freston & Simon Palfrey)
Far off, a band of firs
marches down a mountainside
slipping with shale and gritstone.
But she wants this one
and this one alone in its patch
of scrub: a stunted birch.
She visits it in the night-time
strips herself deliberately beneath
its forked animal branches,
naked to naked, deranged and faithful,
her hair in knots, her face
mired in clay until disguised
and eye-blind; filthy. Out here
on the heath, she honours her disorder,
enacts chaos, lives out a thing
beneath human level, the fractures
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