This poem is taken from Stand 215, 15(3) October - November 2017.

Keith Hutson Three Poems
Consonants are corpses, stiff
with rigor, badly stacked,

impossible to shove uphill,
but on a struggle till they fall to bits.

Fat vowels are muscled by instead:
woolly, soft, not right,

not worth all the effort –  
and when the pressure’s really on

the shape of every bloody sound
can shift, and nothing’s fit

to slip along slow exhalation
or accommodative song.

Then I see your pity in a glance
away, a blush that makes me burn:

between my heart and throat, blocked off,
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