This poem is taken from Stand 212, 14(4) December 2016 - February 2017.

Owen Lowery Two Poems

Respondent verges dilate
to the jab in feeder-mesh
and the gathering trim of nests
in the making. The twigs piled
up at the traffic lights bleed
back into focus, urgent
with the same pulse and the wrestle

of green from a winter’s dark,
the glimmerings. It’s only days
before we’ve the time almost
to ourselves, the chance to mark
out the next phases
of wallpaper and so much
else. A sense of falling

open predicts our waking
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