This poem is taken from Stand 229, 19(1) March - May 2021.

Peter Hebden Semi-permeable
in the morning, waiting to uncross my arms
                               the sun starts up its motor, begins its magnet-drag across the sky

reaching tentatively for the toaster like it might bite
                               every flower on the planet watching, like hungry, well-trained dogs

not yet ready for breakfast but knowing
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