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

Rob Miles Poem
At such heights

                             you could be headlong beyond
any gauge of pain. The pressure up, the oxygen off

your heart starts mumbling molten gold. Your view
now dark but star-shot when the chamber’s frame

gives way to memories of rising prayer and nothing
like this simulated climb they’ve made you take

as you hallucinate those blackened scraps you saw
from dying fires now moths that dust your form as if

for proof to those who watch perplexed and coldly
note your peaceful gaze, that close as they might fly

                             to you they’ve barely changed the air.
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