Swallowing: a poem by Will Burns

12 March 2017 // Poetry

Like the banks we valued
ourselves only as a future,
neglected to peg anything to the day
that was coeval with our action—
the true day that crops up
as a raid on memory.
How long do you suppose
we measured familial intake
in rows of poplar trees (as our borders),
the length of hands (as the value of our horses),
the names of public houses (democracy, violence, magic).
We will forget it all in the end
anyway and we die when we forget
the gears of our swallow.


Will reads at our next Horse Hospital event, taking place on Monday 20 March in collaboration with Strange Attractor Press. More info & tickets here.

Will Burns on Caught by the River / Twitter

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