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.
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