This poem is taken from Stand 218, 16(2) May - June 2018.

Gabriel Levin Poem

The fowl of the air deadeyes its prey in ever-tightening
circles, while you brush by us with your bobbins

and threads. Snip. Snip-snip. Risen from some finer dust
than ashes. Cumbrous, for all your airs.


With one jab of the clawing machine down comes
the edifice, crash crumbling around its ghosted

tenants: intact, unaccounted for: toasting
each other—if only they had voices—across the pit

rock-drill, bone-meal, no skin off our back, thick
as thieves in the fallout, ho-ho, hosanna in the highest.


I’d watched from my perch the burdened
lorries churning up the ramp, and felt the circle tightening

and on the hilltop Ice Palace the skaters knocked
against the railing, and knocked again in their turnings. 
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