after a while, you warm to the wreckage. stop plucking out

gray hairs and find your feet.

the urge to move south subsides.
no sea is needed.
no slate skies stretching out from stern to stars,

no late trains
rumbling past. no wind, no whirl. vastness
pulled out of you. high tides deferred.

you forget all those words you’d learnt overnight. you learn to
live in circles, to love
in slow motion

the rowanberry trees, the smell of rain.

lost in translation. sea lions turned cats;

roar and rumble upstaged)

you learn the
names of insects, the veined maps of leaves

(their veins and blades sufficient),

you learn to meditate. you learn to treasure. you watch your
speech slow down, slim down your bags. plucked from

under the weather. hunger weather.

enter incurable, unsinkable age




By Joanna Kozlowska


Header image by Ellen Rose

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