This poem is taken from Stand 224, 17(4) December 2019 - February 2020.

Sharon Black Two Poems
Heatwave

Through the net: a wheel of stars, a satellite,
the winking of an aircraft bound for Nimes.
Your hand in mine is hot despite a breeze.

From the river: the low hoot of an owl,
a screech and rustle on the bank.
All day I’ve barely said a word, each sentence

warped and dizzy, my voice
a stranger in my ears. Cassiopeia,
the Pleiades, Orion’s Belt, the Milky Way –

I know the rhyme,
know the ones that twinkle
are stars, the ones that don’t are planets.

I know the law of physics: the bright one straight ahead
might now be dead,
its light-waves travelling after.
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