This poem is taken from Stand 220, 16(4) November - December 2018.

Helen Mort Poem

As to goodbye, not much to be said for it

                                  ‒ Ken Smith, ‘Fox Running’

She follows disappointing scents
from dusk to dusk,
liver and tan,

circling the city’s rim,
someone driving past their own
house, afraid to go in.

She catches her death
on the evening wind that scuffs
the top of trees, lifts up the bins

and gives slow chase: death
on the billboard model with her beautiful
cargo of limbs,

death in the man who rides
the 26 to Hackney Wick, out
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