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

Steven Taylor Two Poems
: Process

The words
Unformed

Unmeasured, uncut

I appear yet
To be swinging, gently
On a winter’s afternoon
In a deserted park I’ve known
For donkey’s years

The nouns remind me of Zeppelins
Which I know to be impossible

There is a breeze, barely
Enough to flutter a ship’s flag

In a few moments the world
Will return to me by choice

It will be the strangest thing
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