This poem is taken from Stand 223, 17(3) September - November 2019.
Poem
Bone Picking Season
It is a hopeless and unhomely thing,
to bump your antlers on every lintel, when everyone wants
your moon-water-smile. Out in the woods – the car-park,
the foreshore, the oily water of the estuary – they feel more comfortable,
...
It is a hopeless and unhomely thing,
to bump your antlers on every lintel, when everyone wants
your moon-water-smile. Out in the woods – the car-park,
the foreshore, the oily water of the estuary – they feel more comfortable,
...
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